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im OF THE PILGRIMS. 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 



Rev. H. M. DEXTER, D.D, 



They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 



EDITED BY M. D. BISBEE. 



C JAN 191888 // 






BOSTON AND CHICAGO: 



(Eongrcgattonal ^unttagsSrijool anfc ^ufalisfttng $odetg. 



5 



Copyright, 1887, by 
Congregational Sunday-School and Publishing Society. 



Electrotyped and Printed by 
Stanley <£• Usher, 7 71 Devonshire Street, Boston, Mass. 






PREFACE. 



"? 



\M 



My Dear Mr. Bisbee: — 

You ask me to preface, by a few words, your 
collection of Pilgrim verses. I am glad you have 
gathered them together, and I hope you will 
publish them. Some of them may be no great 
things looked at simply as fruits of the Muse, 
but they are all wholesome and well meant. 
Without exception, they have a good, strong, 
healthy savor, — like opening a drawer where 
thyme and other aromatics have been drying; 
and some of them have the rhythm of sweet 
music in them. Taken together, they are 
eminently worthy of preservation, as the most 
distinctively New England, of any collection 
of odes, songs, ballads, or whatever, which 
could be made. They all deserve kindly 
remembrance and a good place in our history, 
as some of them do in our poetry. 
With sincere affection, 

Faithfully yours, 

HENRY MARTYX DEXTER. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Preface. H. M. Dexter 3 

Arrival at Cape Cod. Bradford's account 9 

That Gray, Cold Christmas Day. Hezekiah 

Butterworth 13 

Kobinson OF Leyden. 0. W. Holmes 16 

The Embarkation. Lizzie Doten 19 

Forefathers' Day. M. W. Chapman 23 

The Liberty Song. Dickinson and Lee 24 

The Mayflower, I. N. Tarbox 27 

Plymouth and the Bay. I. N. Tarbox 30 

The Pilgrims. Mrs. Sigoumey 32 

Hymn. George Bussell 35 

Clark's Island. Hersey B. Goodwin 37 

The Pilgrim Fathers. Ebenezer Elliot 38 

Forefathers' Day. A. L. Stone 40 

Song. Alexander Scammel 44 

A Fragment. Anne Bradstreet 45 

Hymn. Mather Byles 46 

Monday, 11-21 December, 1620. H. M. Dexter 47 

From '• The Present Crisis." J.B.Lowell .. 53 

Ode. Grenville Mellen 55 

Hymn. Anonymous 58 

Ode for the 22d of December. John Davis . 60 



vi Contents. 

Hymn for the 22d of December. John 

Quincy Adams 63 

From "The Present Crisis." J. B. Lowell.. 64 
Hymn for the 22d of December, 1709. Anon- 
ymous 66 

An Ode. F. B 67 

The Pilgrims. H. W. Longfellow 69 

The Sainted Sires. Anonymous 70 

From u An Interview with Miles Standish." 

J. B. Lowell 71 

From " Biglow Papers.'' J. B. Lowell 72 

Hymn. Abiel Holmes 73 

Song. Thomas Greene Fessenden 74 

From " Biglow Papers. " J. B. Lowell 76 

Song, December 22, 1807. JosephWarren Bracket 77 
From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." 

H. W. Longfellow .... 81 

On Her Mother. Anne Bradstreet 93 

Two Hundred Years Ago. James Flint 94 

Anniversary Stanzas. Anonymous 97 

Albany Hymn, 1820. Anonymous 99 

Ode for 22d December. Samuel Davis 100 

Albany Hymn, 1S20. Anonymous 102 

Haverhill Hymn, 1820. Anonymous 103 

A Fragment. J. B. Lowell 104 

The First Thanksgiving. /. N. Tarbox 105 

The First Thanksgiving Day. Margaret J. 

Preston 108 

Ode, John Pierpont 112 



Contents. vii 

Hymn. William P. Lunt 114 

The Twenty-second of December. William 

Cullen Bryant 116 

Original Hymn. Thacldeus Mason Harris 117 

The Price of a Little Pilgrim. Margaret 

J.Preston 118 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 

Felicia Hemans 121 

New England. J. G. Percival 123 

The First Proclamation of Miles Stand- 

ish. Margaret J. Preston 125 

The Pilgrims* Day. Anonymous 128 

Ode. Bufus Dawes 129 

The Pilgrim Fathers: an Ode. Charles 

Spragae 1.32 

The Pilgrim Mothers. E. IF. Bobbins 13i3 

Song of the Pilgrims. T. C. Upham 141 

The Mayflower. Lord Houghton 142 

Hymn. Samuel Deane 144 

St. Botolph's Chimes. Margaret J. Preston.. 145 

Anniversary Hymn. William S. Bussell 148 

The Men of Plymouth. William B. Tappan. 149 

For Forefathers' Day. Leonard Bacon 150 

Ode. Samuel Oilman 151 

Burial Hill. John Milton Holmes 153 

The Pilgrim's Vision. Oliver Wendell Holmes 154 

Hymn for 22d December. Anonymous 160 

Burial Hill. Bay Palmer 161 

The Mayflower. John G. Whittier 162 



viii Contents. 

Fast Day Sport. Margaret J. Preston 164 

The Puritan Maiden's May-day. Margaret 

J. Preston 167 

Forefathers' Day. /. N. Tarbox 169 

The Pilgrims. Sylvia Brown 177 

Memory of our Fathers. Flint 179 

The Mayflower on Xew England's Coast. 

Charles Hall 180 

Memorial Hymn. Bay Palmer 182 

Forefathers' Day. John D. Long 1S4 

Hymn for 21 December, 1870. Nathaniel 

Spooner 186 

Hymn. William T. Davis 1S7 

Dedication of Hitchcock Library. I. N. 

Tarbox 188 

The Boys' Redoubt. Margaret J, Preston 190 

Forefathers' Day. Albert Bryant 193 

The Spirit of Forefathers' Day. Annie A. 

Preston 194 

Our Fathers. J. N. Tarbox 197 

Forefathers' Day, 1883. Bay Palmer 198 

Forefathers' Day. I. N. Tarbox 203 

The Pilgrim Forefathers. H. II. 204 

December 21st, 1620-1870. /. JV. Tarbox 207 

Elder Fauxce at Plymouth Rock. Caro- 
line Prances Orne 211 

First Landing of the Pilgrims. Bobert 

Sonthey 214 



ARRIVAL AT CAPE COD. 

WILLIAM BRADFORD'S ACCOUNT. 

BEING thus arrived in a good harbor and brought safe 
to land, they fell upon their knees & blessed ye God 
of heaven, who bad brought them over ye vast & 
furious ocean, and delivered them from ye periles & miser- 
ies thereof, againe to set their feete on ye firme & stable 
earth, their proper elemente. And no marvell if they were 
thus joyefull, seeing wise Seneca was so affected with sail- 
ing a few miles on ye coast of his owne Italy; as he 
affirmed, that he had rather remaine twentie years on his 
way by land, than pass by sea to any place in a short time ; 
so tedious & dreadfull was ye same unto him. 

But hear I can not but stay and make a pause and stand 
half amased at this poore peoples presente condition ; and so 
I thinke will the reader too, when he well considers ye same. 
Being thus passed ye vast ocean, and a sea of troubles 
before in their preparation (as may be remembered by yt 
which wente before), they had now no friends to wellcome 
them, nor inns to entertaine or refresh their weatherbeaten 
bodys, no houses, or much less townes to repaire too, to 
seeke for succoure. It is recorded in Scripture as a mercie 
to ye apostle & his shipwrecked company, yt the barbarians 
shewed them no smale kindnes in refreshing them, but 
those savage barbarians, when they mette with them (as 
after will appeare) were readier to fill their sides full of 
arrows than otherwise. And for ye season, it was winter, 
and they that know ye winters of yt countrie know them 



10 Arrival at Cape Cod. 

to be sharp & violent & subject to cruel & fierce storms, 
deangerous to travill to known places, but much more to 
serch an unknown coast. Besids, what could they see but 
a hidious & desolate wildernes full of wild beasts & wild 
men? and what multituds ther might be of them they 
knew not. Neither could they, as it were, goe up to ye 
tope of Pisgah, to vew from this wildernes a more goodly 
cuntrie to feed their hops; for which way soever they 
turned their eys (save upward to ye heavens) they could 
have little solace or content in respecte to any outward 
objects. For sumer being done, all things stand upon them 
with a weatherbeaten face; and ye whole cuntrie, full of 
woods & thickets, represented a wild & savage view. If 
they looked behind them, ther was ye mighty ocean which 
they had passed, and was now as maine barr and goulfe to 
separate them from all ye civill parts of ye world. If it be 
said they had a ship to succoure them, it is trew, but what 
heard they daly from ye Mr & company? but yt with Speade 
they should looke out a place with their shallop, wher they 
would be at some neare distance, for ye season was shuch, 
as he would not stirr from thence till a safe harbor was dis- 
covered by them wher they would, and he might goe with- 
out danger ; and that victells consumed apace, but he must 
& would keep sufficient for them selves & their returne. 
Yea, it was muttered by some that if they gott not a place 
in time, they would turne them & and their goods ashore & 
leave them. 

Let it also be considred what weakc hopes of supply <fc 
succoure they left behind them yt might bear up their 
minds in this sade condition and trialls they were under; 
and they could not but be very smale. It is true indeed, in- 
deed ye affections & love of their brethren at Leyden was 



Arrival at Cape Cod. 11 

cordiall & entire towards them, but they had little power to 
help them, or them selves ; and how ye case stode betweene 
them & ye marchants at their coming away, hath already 
been declared. AVhat could now sustaine them but ye 
spirite of God & his grace? May not and ought not the 
children of those fathers rightly say: Our faithers were 
Englishmen which came over this great ocean, and were 
ready to perish in this wilderness, but they cried unto ye 
Lord, and he heard their voyce and looked on their 
adversitee. 



SONGS OF THE PILGRIMS. 



THAT GRAY, COLD CHRISTMAS DAY. 

December 25, 1620. 

rpHEY sailed away from Provincetown Bay 

In the fireless light of the sun, 
And they came at night to a havened height, 

And the journey at last was done. 
With rain and sleet were the tall masts iced, 

And frosty and dark was the air, 
But they looked from the crystal sails to Christ 
As they moored in the harbor fair. 
The sky was cold and gray, 

And there were no ancient bells to ring, 
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, 
No chapel of baron, lord, or king, 
That gray, cold winter day. 

The snow came down on the vacant seas 
And deep on the lone rocks lay ; 



14 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

But their axes rung 'mid the evergreen-trees, 

And followed the Sabbath day. 
The Christmas came, in a crimson haze, 

And the workmen said at dawn : 
" Shall our axes swing on this day of days 
When the Lord of Light was born ? " 
The sky was cold and gray, 

And there were no ancient bells to ring, 
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, 
No chapel of baron, lord, or king, 
That gray, cold Christmas day. 

"The old towns' bells we seem to hear, 

They are ringing sweet on the Dee : 
They are ringing sweet on the Haerlem Meer, 

And sweet on the Zuyder Zee. 
The pines are frosted with snow and sleet : 

Shall we our axes wield, 
When the bells of Lincoln are ringing sweet 
And the bells of Austerfield ? " 
The sky was cold and gray, 

And there were no ancient bells to ring, 
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, 
No chapel of baron, lord, or king, 
That gray, cold Christmas day. 



That Qray, Cold Christmas Day. 15 

Then the master said : " Your axes wield ; 

Kemember ye Malabarre Bay, 
And the covenant there with the Lord ye sealed ; 

Let your axes ring to-day. 
You may talk of the old towns' bells to-night, 

When your work for the Lord is done ; 
And your boats return, and the shallops light 
Shall follow the light of the sun. 
The sky is cold and gray, 

And here are no ancient bells to ring, 
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, 
No chapel of baron, lord, or king, 
This gray, cold Christmas day. 

" If the Lord was born on Christmas day, 

And the day of him is blest, 
Then low at his feet the evergreens lay, 

And cradle his Church in the West. 
Immanuel waits at the temple gates 

Of the nation to-day ye found, 
And the Lord delights in no empty rites — 
To-day let your axes sound ! " 
The sky was cold and gray, 

And there were no ancient bells to ring, 
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, 



16 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

No chapel of baron, lord, or king, 
That gray, cold Christmas day. 

Their axes rung through the evergreen-trees, 

Like the bells on the Thames and Tay, 
And they cheering sang by the windy seas, 

And they thought of Malabarre Bay. 
On the lonely heights of Burial Hill 

The old Precisioners sleep, 
But did ever men with a nobler will 
A goodlier Christmas keep — 

When sky was cold and gray, 

And there were no ancient bells to ring, 
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing, 
No chapel of baron, lord, or king, 
That gray, cold Christmas day? 

— Hezekiah Buttemvorth. 



ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. 

T TE sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer 
-' — *- His wandering flock had gone before, 
But he, the shepherd, might not share 
Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 



Robinson of Ley den, 17 

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, 
Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, 

While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, 
The pastor spake, and thus he said : 

Men, brethren, sisters, children dear, 
God calls you hence from over sea ; 

Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, 
Xor yet along the Zuyder Zee. 

Ye go to bear the saving word 

To tribes unnamed and shores untrod ; 

Heed well the lessons ye have heard 
From those old teachers taught of God. 

Yet think not unto them was lent 
All light for all the coming days, 

And heaven's eternal wisdom spent 
In making straight the ancient ways. 

The living fountain overflows 

For every flock, for every lamb. 
Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose 

With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." 

He spake ; with lingering, long embrace, 
With tears of love and partings fond, 



18 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

They floated down the creeping Maas, 
Along the Isle of Ysselmond. 

They passed the frowning towers of Briel, 
The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand, 

And grated soon with lifting keel 
The sullen shores of fatherland. 

No home for these ! Too well they knew 
The mitred king behind the throne ; 

The sails were set, the pennons flew, 

And westward ho ! for worlds unknown. 

And these were they who gave us birth, 
The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, 

Who won for us this virgin earth, 
And freedom with the soil they gave. 

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, — 

In alien earth the exiles lie, — 
Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, 

His words our noblest battle-cry ! 

Still cry them, and the world shall hear, 
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea ! 

Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, 
Nor on the land-locked Zuyder Zee ! 

— 0. W. Holmes. 



The Embarkation. 19 



THE EMBARKATION. 

rpHE baDd of Pilgrim exiles in tearful silence 
-■- stood, 

While thus outspake, in parting, John Robinson 

the good : 
"Fare thee well, my brave Miles Standish ! 

Thou hast a trusty sword ; 
But not with carnal weapons shalt thou glorify 

*the Lord. 
Fare thee well, good Elder Brewster ! Thou art 

a man of prayer ; 
Commend the flock I give thee to the Holy Shep- 
herd's care. 
And thou, beloved Carver! — what shall I say 

to thee ? 
I need, in this my sorrow, that thou shouldst 

comfort me. 
In the furnace of affliction must all be sharply 

tried ; 
But nought prevails against us, if the Lord be 

on our side. 
Farewell, farewell, my people ! Go, and stay 

not the hand, 



20 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

But precious seed of freedom sow ye broadcast 

through the laud. 
Ye may scatter it in sorrow, and water it with 

tears, 
But rejoice for those who gather the fruit in 

after years ; 
Ay ! rejoice that ye may leave them an altar 

unto God, 
On the holy soil of freedom, where no tyrant's 

foot hath trod. 
All honor to our sovereign, his majesty King- 
James, 
But the King of kings above us the highest 

homage claims." 
Upon the deck together they knelt them down 

and prayed, — 
The husband and the father, the matron and the 

maid ; 
The broad blue heavens above them, bright with 

the summer's glow, 
And the wide, wide waste of waters, with its 

treacherous waves below ; 
Around, the loved and cherished, whom they 

should see no more, 
And the dark, uncertain future stretching dimly 

on before. 



The Embarkation. 21 

Oh, well might Edward Winslow look sadly on 

his bride ! 
Oh, well might fair Rose Standish press to her 

chieftain's side ! 
For with crucified affections they bowed the 

knee in prayer, 
And besought that God would aid them to suffer 

aud to bear ; 
To bear the cross of sorrow — a broader shield 

of love 
Than the royal cross of England, that proudly 

waved above. 
The balmy winds of summer swept o'er the glit- 
tering seas ; 
It brought the sign of parting, — the white sails 

met the breeze ; 
One farewell gush of sorrow, one prayerful 

blessing more, 
And the bark that bore the exiles glided slowly 

from the shore. 
Thus they left that goodly city, o'er stormy seas 

to roam, 
But they knew that they were pilgrims, and this 

world was not their home. 



22 Sorigs of the Pilgrims. 

There is a God in heaven, whose purpose none 

may tell ; 
There is a God in heaven who doeth all things 

well. 
And thus an infant nation was cradled on the 

deep, 
While hosts of holy angels were set to guard its 

sleep ; 
No seer, no priest or prophet, read its horoscope 

at birth, 
No bard in solemn Saga sung its destiny to 

earth ; 
But slowly, slowly, slowly as the acorn from the 

sod, 
It grew in strength and grandeur, and spread its 

arms abroad. 
The eyes of distant nations turned toward that 

goodly tree, 
And they saw how fair and pleasant were the 

fruits of liberty ! 
Like earth's convulsive motion before the earth- 
quake's shock, 
Like the foaming of the ocean around old Ply- 
mouth Rock, 
So the deathless love of freedom, of the majesty 

of right, 



Forefathers' Day. 23 

In all kindred and all nations, is rising in its 
might ; 

And words of solemn warning come from the 
honored dead, — 

Woe, woe to the oppressor if righteous blood be 
shed ! 

Rush not blindly on the future ! Heed the les- 
sons of the past ! 

For the feeble and the faithful are the conquer- 
ors at last. 

— Lizzie Doten. 



FOREFATHERS' DAY. 

rpHE memory of the faithful dead 
-*- Be on their children's hearts this day ! 
Your fathers' God, their hosts that led. 
Will shield you through the stormy way. 

Your Saviour bids you seek and save 

The trampled and the oppressed of earth ; 

At his command the storm to brave, 
Faithful and true, come boldly forth ! 



24 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Their suffering though your souls must share, 
Though pride oppress and hate condemn, 

Stand up ! and breathe your fearless prayer 
For those in bonds as bound with them ! 

Unheeded falls the fierce command 

That bids the struggling soul be dumb ! 

Shout with a voice to rouse a land ! 
Bid the free martyr spirit come ! 

Searcher of hearts, to thee we bow, — 

Uphold us with thy staff and rod ; 
Our fervent hearts are ready now, — 

We come to do thy will, O God ! 

— M. W. Chapman. 



THE LIBEETY SONG. 1 

Tune : Hearts of Oalc. 

C10ME, join hand and hand, brave Americans 
' all, 
And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call ; 
No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim, 
Or stain with dishonor America's name. 

1 Sung at the first celebration of the landing at Plymouth, 1769. 



The Liberty Song. 25 

CHORUS. 

In freedom we 're born, and in freedom we 11 
live ; 

Our purses are ready, 
Steady, friends, steady, 
Not as slaves, but as freemen, our money we '11 
give. 

Our worthy Forefathers — let 's give 'em a 

cheer ! — 
To climates unknown did courageously steer ; 
Through oceans to deserts for freedom they 

came, 
And dying, bequeathed us their freedom and 

fame. 

Their generous bosoms all danger despised, 
So highly, so wisely, their birthright they prized ; 
We '11 keep what they gave — we will piously keep, 
Nor frustrate their toils on the land or the deep. 

The Tree their own hands had to libeily reared, 
They lived to behold growing strong and revered ; 
With transport they cried : fct Now our wishes we 

gain, 
For our children shall gather the fruits of our 

pain." 



23 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

How sweet are the labors that freemen endure, 
That they shall enjoy all the profits secure. 
No more such sweet labors Americans know, 
If Britons shall reap what Americans sow. 

Swarms of placemen and pensioners soon will 

appear, 
Like locusts deforming the charms of the year ; 
Suns vainly will rise, showers vainly descend, 
If we are to drudge for what others shall spend. 

Then join hand in hand, brave Americans all ; 
By uniting we stand, by dividing we fall ; 
In so righteous a cause let us hope to succeed. 
For heaven approves of each generous deed. 

All ages shall speak with amaze and applause 
Of the courage we 11 show in support of our 

laws ; 
To die we can bear, but to serve we disdain ; 
For shame is to freemen more dreadful than pain. 

This bumper I crown for our Sovereign's health, 
And this for Britannia's glory and wealth ; 
That wealth and that glory immortal may be, 
If she is but just, and we are but free. 

— Hon. John Dickinson, Delaware, avxl 
Dr. Arthur Lee, Virginia. 



The Mayflower. 27 



THE MAYFLOWER. 

I I OW dar'st thou try this stormy path, 

-* — L Thou frail and struggling bark ! 
Old England's shores are shut from sight 

Amid the gathering dark. 
The friends who waved their sad adieu 

Have homeward gone to weep, 
And thou art left, a lonely waif, 

Upon the boundless deep. 

Night closes round thy little group 

Of aching, homesick hearts, 
That strive to hide the thoughts which rise, 

And quench the tear that starts ; 
But hard it is, on wings of faith, 

To mount o'er present fears, 
And see the glory that may break 

Around the distant years. 

Yet sail thou on, thou shalt not fail 

To reach yon waiting shores ; 
Thou carriest treasures costlier far 

Than Ophir's golden stores ; 



28 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

If Caesar's bark must needs be safe 

Amid the angry waves, 
The men thou bearest can not sink 

In ocean's gloomy caves. 

Sail gladly on, the world behind 

Is rent with hate and strife ; 
The canker of a thousand years 

Is feeding on its life ; 
Yea, welcome, as thy truest friend, 

This broad, dividing sea ; 
Its stormy ramparts are thy shield, 

The world beyond is free. 

The little seed, by Pilgrim hands 

In fear and weakness sown, 
May wait through long and weary years 

Before to fullness grown ; 
But it shall stand, a mighty tree, 

In glory and in pride, 
And through the rising ages stretch 

Its fruitful branches wide. 

Then sail thou on, though torn and tossed, 
By tempests driven and hurled, 



The Mayflower. 29 

Thou hast the charter which shall shape 

And rule a coming world. 
The tyrant kings, with haughty power, 

Who scorned thy low estate, 
Shall roam as exiles in the earth, 

And on thy bidding wait. 

Fair freedom from this hour shall date 

A new and wondrous birth ; 
The light of liberty shall rise 

To spread o'er all the earth ; 
The monarch's gilded throne shall grow 

A cheap and childish thing, 
For man in dignity shall stand, 

And God alone be king. 

Earth's ancient tribes and lands remote ; 

Where Indus rolls his tides, 
Or where the Northern dwellers climb 

The snowy mountain sides ; 
Where the fierce Arab spurs his steed 

Across the burning plain, 
Or fur-clad Russians drive the deer 

With freely flowing rein ; 



30 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Where the dark Ethiop spreads his tent 

On Afric's Eastern shores : 
Or forest hunters skim the waves 

With lightly dipping oars. — ■ 
All lands beneath the circling snn. 

All islands of the sea. 
As centuries roll, shall taste the fruit 

From this fair Pilgrim tree. 

— Increase X. Tarbox. 



PLYMOUTH AND THE BAY. 

npHEY tell of the mighty founders, 
"*" And the empires great of old, 
Of the rough gigantic Nimrod, 

And of Romulus the bold. 
Of the fierce barbaric warriors. 

And the pirates of the flood. 
Who built their thrones by plunder. 

And stained their courts with blood ; 
But we sing, in a grander story. 

Of the men who crossed the sea 
To change these western forests 

To au empire of the free ; 



Plymouth and the Bay, 31 

The hand of the Lord was with them, 

Along their perilous way, 
And they laid their firm foundations 

At Plymouth and the Bay. 

They would not bend the conscience 

To suit a tyrant's frown, 
And at the feet of haughty kings 

They would not bow them down ; 
They met their proud oppressors 

With calm, undaunted eye, 
As men long used to suffer, 

And not afraid to die ; 
In the strength of God they trusted, 

In the love of God they wrought ; 
Nor gold, nor earthly glory, 

Nor praise of men, they sought. 
In humble faith and patience 

They lived their little day, 
And laid their strong foundations 

At Plymouth and the Bay. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



32 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



THE PILGRIMS. 

TTOW slow yon tiny vessel plows the main ! 
-■ — L Amid the heaving billows now she seems 
A toiling atom. Then from wave to wave 
Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed, or reels, 
Half -wrecked, through gulfs profound. 

Moons wax and wane, 
But still that lonely traveler treads the deep. 
I see an ice-bound coast, towards which she 

steers 
With such a tardy movement that it seems 
Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to 

stone, 
And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. 
They land ! they land ! Not like the Genoese, 
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye 
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come 
From their long prison, — hardy forms, that 

brave 
The world's unkindness, — men of hoary hair, 
And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave, 
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. 
Bleak nature's desolation wraps them round, — 



The Pilgrims, 33 

Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, 

And savage men, who through the thickets peer 

With vengeful arrow.- What could lure their 

steps 
To this drear desert ? Ask him who left 
His father's home to roam through Haran's 

wilds, 
Distrusting not the guide who called him forth, 
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed, 
Should be as ocean's sands. 

But yon lone bark 
Hath spread her parting sail. 

They crowd the strand, 
Those few lone Pilgrims. Can ye scan the woe r 
That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link 
Binding to man and habitable earth 
Is severed ? Can ye tell what pangs were there^ 
What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart, 
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, 
Their distant dear ones ? 

Long with straining eye 
They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no 
shriek 



34 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Of anguish when that bitter loneliness 

Sank down into their bosoms ? No ! They turn 

Back to their dreary famished huts, and pray ! — 

Pray, — and the ills that haunt this transient life 

Fade into air. Up in each girded breast 

There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, 

A loftiness, to face a world in arms, 

To strip the pomp from scepters, and to lay 

Upon the sacred altar the warm blood 

Of slain affections when they rise between 

The soul and God. 

And can ye deem it strange 
That from their planting such a branch should 

bloom 
As nations envy? Would a germ, embalmed 
With prayer's pure teardrops, strike no deeper 

root 
Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew 
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again? 
Hid by its veil of waters from the hand 
Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth 
In giant strength. 

Its early clusters, crushed 
In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host 



Hymn. 35 

A draught of deadly wine. Oh ! ye who boast 
In your free veins the blood of sires like these, 
Lose not their lineaments. Should mammon 

cling 
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget 
That bloated luxury which eats the core 
From manly virtue, or the tempting world 
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, 
Turn ye to Plymouth's Beach, and on that rock 
Kneel in their footprints, and renew the vow 
They breathed to God. 

— -Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 



HYMN. 

QtONS of the noble sires 

^ Who braved proud ocean's waves 

For freedom's sake ! 
Say, will ye quench those fires 
Their faith and love inspires, 
And, standing on their graves, 

Their paths forsake ? 



36 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Shall freedom find a grave 
On this blood -ransomed soil? 

Must we be slaves? 
Our fleeting lives to save, 
Must we no mercy crave, 
But with the bondman toil, 

Branded as knaves? 

Shall despots here bear sway - 
The iron scepter here display, 

Our lips to close ? 
Sons of the Pilgrims ! Say, 
Will ye these lords obey, 
And ask them when you may 

The truth disclose ? 

No, no ! we answer, No ! 
The truth we '11 fearless show 

While breath remains ; 
Did not our Saviour so? 
Would he the truth forego? 
Or shrink when bade the foe, 

T' escape from pains ? 

While then a slave is found, 
While man by man is bound, 
We '11 speak and pray ; 



Clark 9 s Island. 37 

We '11 wear the bondman's chains, 
We '11 bear the bondman's pains, 
We '11 hear when he complains, — 
We '11 do and say. 

— Oeorge Russell. 



CLARK'S ISLAND. 

TIT AIL ! hallowed spot, where freedom's rays 
First darted o'er the wanderer's ways, 

And gave him rest ; 
First brought the dawn of brighter days, — 

Thy shores are blest ! 

But dark the clouds that lingered round 
The island which the Pilgrim found 

In time long gone, 
And deep and drear the thrilling sound 

Of gathering storm. 

Aye, dark indeed, whose night of yore 
That rocked the Mayflower near the shore 

On wintry tides, — 
For dark the waves that round thee roar, 

And wash thy sides. 



38 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

But bright the star that lent its ray 
To bear the traveler on his way 

From childhood's seat ; 
That lighted np so fair a day 

For his retreat. 

Oh, who would ask a holier bed 
Than where he laid his weary head, 

And nobly slept ? 
For though the Pilgrim long hath fled, 

His spirit 's left. 

Then, hail the spot where first the sound 
Of freedom shook the sacred ground 

In early days, 
And filled the hills and forests round 

With gladsome praise ! 

— Hersey B. Goodwin. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

A VOICE of grief and anger, 
-*--*- Of pity mixed with scorn, 
3Ioans o'er the waters of the West, 
Through fire and darkness borne ; 



The Pilgrim Fathers. 39 

And fiercer voices join it, — 

A wild, triumphant yell ! 
For England's foes, on ocean slain, 

Have heard it where they fell. 

What is the voice that cometh 

Athwart the spectered sea? 
The voice of men who left their homes 

To make their children free ; 
Of men whose hearts were torches 

For freedom's quenchless fire ; 
Of men whose mothers have brought forth 

The sire of Franklin's sire. 

They speak ! the Pilgrim Fathers 

Speak to you from their graves ! 
For earth hath muttered to their bones 

That we are soulless slaves ! 
The Bradfords, Carvers, Winslows, 

Have heard the worm complain, 
That less than men oppress the men 

Whose sires were Pym and Vane ! 

What saith the voice that boometh 

Athwart the upbraiding waves ? 
Though slaves are ye, our sons are free ; 

Then why will you be slaves ? 



40 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

The children of your fathers 

Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane ! 
Land of the sires of Washington, 
Bring forth such men again ! 
— Ebenezer Elliot, the Com - law Rhymer of 
England. 



FOREFATHERS' DAY. 

O'ER the white surges of the sea 
A wave-worn ship conies sailing on, 
Carrying aloft, all visibly, 

The marks of many a tempest gone. 

Without a pilot at the helm, 
On this far-past memorial day, 

Fearless of what may overwhelm, 
She steers within the unknown bay. 

Beneath the bold and rocky steep 

That guards that lone and wintry shore, 

She casts her anchor to the deep, 
Her long and stormy voyage o'er. 

I see stern manhood, bold and strong, 
Girt as for any rugged task, 



Forefathers' Day. 41 

Striding the slippery deck along, 
Nor caring in the sun to bask. 

And, side by side with manhood's pace, 
Under that bleak and frowning sky, 

I see fair woman's gentle face, 
Braving the air as fearlessly. 

The memory of their distant home, 

So dear to every filial heart, 
Still throbs beneath their spirits' dome, 

Telling how hard from it to part. 

And as they gaze upon the land, 

Into the depths of forests old, 
No pleasant views their souls command, 

But only scenes all dark and cold. 

There are no spires of cities fair, 
No monuments of wealth and taste 

That lift their winning beauty there, 
And bid them to such welcome haste. 

O'er vale and hill the pathless wood 

Stretches its scepter far away ; 
Its shadows all the landscape brood, 

And dim the light of brightest day. 



42 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

In such a scene, what heritage 
These lonely voyagers to cheer ? 

What prizes that their choice engage 
Amid these barren wilds appear ? 

Have they the conqueror's thirst for blood ? 

And would they win a warrior's fame ? 
And here, beyond this Western flood, 

Carve with the sword a soldier's name ? 

Nay ; they have come across the sea 

From the dear land that gave them birth, 

To worship God in liberty 

In these remotest ends of earth. 

Ah ! on the crest of Plymouth Rock 

They built more grandly than they knew, 

And to that sacred stone there flock 
Unnumbered Pilgrims, brave and true. 

Are we the sons of Pilgrim sires ? 

Where'er we roam, o'er land and sea, 
Burn in our hearts the living fires 

That prove such high nativity ? 

Prize we the memory of the day 

That brought our fathers o'er the deep ? 



Forefathers' Day. 43 

And would we, fearlessly as they, 
A Pilgrim's faith unfaltering keep ? 

Do we forsake a life of ease ? 

Do we reject the rule of sense? 
And, seeking not ourselves to please, 

Choose rather to be exiled hence ? 

When we are tempted to provide 

The good that earthly passions crave — 

Ambition, luxury, and pride — 
Flee we across the distant wave ? 

The scepter of this lower world, 
Held o'er our heads to bid us bow, 

Let us, with canvas wide unfurled, 
O'er some Atlantic turn our prow ! 

By self-denial's sacrifice, 

And self-devotion to the right, 
To heaven's guidance lift oar eyes, 

And from all evil take our flight ! 

So may we prove the hallowed tie 
That binds us to that Pilgrim band, 

And live again, all filially, 

Their life, so holy, pure, and grand ! 

— A. L. Stone. 



44 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



SONG. 1 

Tune : British Hero. 

A LL hail the day that ushers in 
The period of revolving time, 
In which our sires, of glorious fame, 
Bravely through toils and dangers came, 

NovanghVs wilds to civilize, 

And wild disorder harmonize, 

To plant Britannia's arts and arms, 

Plenty, peace, freedom — pleasing charms, 

Derived from British rights and laws, 
That justly merit our applause ; 
Darlings of heaven, heroes brave, 
You still shall live, though in the grave. 

Live, live, within each grateful breast, 
With reverence for your names possessed ; 
Your praises on our tongues shall dwell, 
And sires to sons your actions tell. 

To distant poles their praise resound, 
Let virtue be with glory crowned. 

1 Sung at the second celebration, 1770. 



Hymn. 9 45 

Ye dreary wilcls, each rock and cave, 
Echo the virtues of the brave. 

They nobly braved their indigence, 
Death, famine, sword, and pestilence. 
Each toil, each danger they endured, 
Till for their sons they had procured 

A fertile soil, profusely blest 

With nature's stores, and now possessed 

By sons who gratefully revere 

Our fathers' names and memories dear. 

Plymouth, the great mausoleum, 
Famous for our forefathers' tomb ; 
Join, join the chorus, one and all, 
Resound their deeds in Colony Hall ! 

— Alexander Scammel. 



"DEMEMBER, Lord, thy folk whom thou 
-*- ** To wilderness hast brought ; 
Let not thine own inheritance 
Be sold away for nought. 

— Anne Bradstreet. 



46 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



HYMN. 

[1770.] 

TTX) thee the tuneful anthem soars, 
-*- To thee, our fathers' God, and ours ; 

This wilderness we chose our seat ; 
To rights secured by equal laws, 
From persecution's iron claws, 

We here have sought our calm retreat. 

See ! how the flocks of Jesus rise ! 
See ! how the face of Paradise 

Blooms through the thickets of the wild ! 
Here Liberty erects her throne ; 
Here Plenty pours her treasures down ; 

Peace smiles, as heavenly cherubs mild. 

Lord ! guard thy favors ; Lord ! extend 
Where farther western suns descend ; 

Nor southern seas the blessings bound ; 
Till Freedom lift her cheerful head, 
Till pure Religion onward spread, 

And, beaming, wrap the globe around. 

— Mather Byles. 



Monday, 11-21, December, 1620. 47 



MONDAY, 11-21, DECEMBER, 1620. 

"IV /TORNING was breaking over Gurnet Head ; 
-L"- Up sprang Miles Standish from his hem- 
lock bed, 
With cold and anxious forethought hard be- 
stead. 

The chilling shadows of the shortest day- 
Delayed the brightness of the dawning ray, 
While round the smoldering fire his comrades 
lay. 

He raked the embers with a branch of fir, 
Threw o'er the coals pine-knots and juniper, 
And watched the fragrant, crackling blazes stir. 

The merry sound, suggesting better cheer 

Of warmth, and light, and comfort waiting near, 

One and another waked, intent to hear. 

A tall and slender form, with winsome face — 
Its fine lines beaming with benignant grace — 
And aspect gentler than became the place, 

Stood at his side — to whom then Standish said : 
" I fear me, governor, lest this rough work, bred 
Of wave and winter, shall leave many dead. 



48 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

" Haste is upon us. Somewhere in this bay 

It groweth urgent that we fix, this day, 

Some spot where we may build and make a way." 

" Even so," replied the governor ; u yet my faith 
Is strong that, as the ancient Psalmist saith, 
' Who cry for help, them He delivered.' 

" While ' on the Sabbath day we rested ' here, 
Giving the hours, as well, to humble prayer, 
Doubt fled, and to my soul all things grew clear, 

As, to the eye of faith, that cloudy sign 
Which Israel followed as its guide benign, 
Rested, for us, upon that dark shore line." 

John Carver pointed, as he spake, away 
Whither, three miles or more across the bay, 
The gleam from sunrise on a hillside lay. 

Spake out then Master Coppin, standing near : 
u An' 't please your worships, shallow gulfs, as 

here, 
Have this one law : ' Hard by the channel steer.' 

" Two days of ebb and flood to my close quest 
Have marked, without mistake, one course as 

best ; 
The tide-flow inward maketh south-south-west. 



Monday, 11-21, December, 1620. 49 

"And though yon slopes across these nearer 

shoals 
Invite the coming of sea-weary souls, 
Not that way is it that deep water rolls." 

"'Tis well," the governor said. "Break first 

our fast ; 
With prayer let speed be made ; put sail to mast ; 
Answer approacheth for our problem vast." 

Uncovering round the sturdy watch-fire's blaze, 
He next, accordant to their pious ways, 
Led them to heaven in speech of prayer and 
praise. 

Then turned they, hungry, to their simple 

cheer, — 
As in the fatherlands that sent them there, — 
Thankful for biscuit, cheese, and bitter beer. 

In haste they bounded o'er the shallop's side, 
Pushed off with ease upon the rising tide, 
And to their sail the help of oars supplied. 

They caught the north-west wind off Saquish 

sand, 
And soon the young flood lent its powerful hand 
To tug their keel toward the long-wished-for 

strand. 



50 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

By Long Beach Head eastward the channel 

veered, 
And for a mile scarcely the mainland neared, 
While straight before the favoring breeze they 

steered. 

That land gave greeting in the young day's light, 
Well-wooded and well-hilled, and clean and 

bright ; 
A home-like look it had — a pleasant sight ! 

Cleared ground on one side offered homesteads 

good, 
While close around it, as grim sentinels, stood 
Some lofty monarchs of primeval wood. 

Sharp to the west the tide-way sudden strayed 
Toward where a bowlder on its side was laid. 
Near by an entering stream its music made. 

" Let us debark, " impetuous Standish bade ; 
To whom the governor bowed his willing head, 
And for the bowlder's side the boat was sped. 

Shoreward, in sand the rock lay bedded steep, 
Seaward, it bordered upon waters deep ; 
Easy the eager crew could on it leap. 



Monday, 11-21, December, 1620. 51 

Landed, they rambled through those forest 

nooks, 
Heard something like the "caw" of their own 

rooks, 
Found cornfields here and there, and running 

brooks ; 

Oaks, pines, beech, walnut, cedar, birch, and 

ash — 
As goodly trees as the Old Country has — 
With plum, asp, cherry, vines, and sassafras ; 

Sorrel and yarrow, brooklime, liverwort, 

" Great stores of leekes and onyons," many a 

sort 
Of wild herb, good for use of health, or hurt. 

"A spit's depth of black earth" indorsed the 

mold ; 
While, that all Indian u signs" were plainly old, 
Freedom of entry to new-comers told. 

And now the brief day stands at its high noon. 
Spake Carver : " Goodmen ! darkness hasteth 

soon, 
With small help for us from the waning moon. 



52 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

" These shores beseem ; for scituation good ' ; 
Here maize, and fowl, and fish plan plenteous 

food, 
And desolation offereth quietude. 

" What harbor for our shipping it can prove, 
To test and settle doth us next behoove ; 
So to our soundings let us instant move." 

As down the bluffs they haste, bound in one 

thrall, 
For a brief moment, on a hillock tall, 
As by a common impulse, lingered all. 

The scene was winsome, — calm the waters lay, 
And soft the sweet light stretching far away, — 
A summer picture for a winter's day. 

Quoth Bradford : "If to us God blessing gave, 
Who should die serving here, should comfort 

have, 
Nor miss man's benison on his lowly grave." 

u Ay ! " answered Carver. " Ay ! better sleep 

here" — 
His word awaiting proof that self -same year — 
" Than in the Rhine-washed aisles of St. Pierre." 



From " The Present Crisis." 53 

The shallop's heavy head was sent about, 

And, with their fathom-line and plummet stout, 

That 't was a harbor fair, put out of doubt. 

Then toward Clark's Island back their course 

they lay, 
The night in bivouac there once more to stay, 
And hie them to their ship the following day. 

They had the work in hand done to their best, 
Yet dreamed not, as that sun went down the 

west, 
That to the ages they had made bequest ! 

— H. M. Dexter. 



FROM "THE PRESENT CRISIS." 1 

Z^IOUNT me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they 

^-^ were souls that stood alone, 

While the men they agonized for hurled the 

contumelious stone ; 
Stood serene, and down the future saw the 

golden beam incline 

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



54 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their 

faith divine, 
By one man's plain truth to manhood and to 

manhood's great design. 

For humanity sweeps onward ; where to-day the 

martyr stands, 
On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in 

his hands ; 
Far in front the cross stands ready and the 

crackling fagots burn, 
While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent 

awe return 
To glean up the scattered ashes into history's 

golden urn. 

'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' 
graves ; 

Worshipers of the light ancestral make the pres- 
ent light a crime ; — 

Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered 
by men behind their time ? 

Turn those tracks toward past or future that 
make Plymouth Rock sublime ? 

— James Russell Lowell. 



Ode. 55 



ODE. 



"^TOT all the loftiest memories 
-^-^ That rose on earlier days, 
When, with the trump and sacrifice, 

And swelling pomp of praise, 
Men gathered to their pillared halls, 

'Mid garlands, joy, and wine, 
To gaze on heroes round the walls, 

In marble made divine, 

And pour the deep libation there 

To victors passed away ; 
On minds whose wonders, rich and rare, 

Poured splendor on their day, — 
Not all in finer hearts can vie 

With those that summon here 
To lift, on freedom's clarion high, 

The anthem of our cheer ! 

We sing a nobler race than passed 

In ancient times to glory ; 
We sing of deeds that shall outlast, 

In fame, all classic story ; 



56 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Of men who fought for God, and gave 

Home for a desert shore, — 
With hearts too panoplied and brave 

To quail beneath its roar ! 

Of exiles of a deathless line 

And proud, unshrinking brow ; 
Lone pilgrims to a rocky shrine, 

Where a people bend them now ; 
A rocky shrine, unsheltered, rude, 

Where the wild wolf from his lair 
Shrieked through the pathless solitude, 

And broke the voice of prayer ! 

We sing of heroes who outdid 

The boast of chivalry ; 
Whose valor braved the shock amid 

A stormy sea and sky ; 
Whose deeds were deeds of mercy, done 

To persecuted man ; 
Whose wreaths were wreaths of triumph, won 

In virtue's fearless van ! 

New England's fathers ! Men who dared 

The agony of years ; 
Whom pale oppression never spared, 

But could not bow to tears ; 



Ode. 57 

Who, 'mid the howl of winter, fled, 
And your banner here unfurled, 

And conscience in her pride outled 
Unfettered to the world. 

Pilgrims of glory ! There shall rise 

Fast praise from heart and tongue 
Of all for whom in sacrifice, 

Like martyr-saints, ye sprung ; 
And their children's children shall outpour 

From echoing clime to clime, 
New paeans for the toils ye bore 

In a nation's morning-time. 

Two hundred years their cloudy wings 

Expand above your graves ; 
And lo, what wide-flashed glory flings 

O'er all New England's waves ! 
Fathers of liberty ! To ye 

We lift the wine-cup now ; 
Yours be the hallowed memory 

That consecrates our vow ! 

And should the voice of prophecy 

That 's doomed us to the dust 
E'er chant the requiem of the free, 

By tyranny accursed, 



58 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Oh, be a remnant true to her ! 

Sons whom New England bore, 
Together seek one sepulcher 

On Plymouth's sounding shore ! 

— Gretiville Mellen. 



HYMN. 1 



rpHE brittle bark is on the gale, 

-^ Heaven guides her course and swells the 

sail ; 
The Pilgrims reach yon welcome shore, 
All vocal with the songs they pour. 

Keen round them blows the winter's air ; 
The weary wanderers kneel for prayer ; 
From opening clouds a voice is given ; 
Pilgrims, there 's nothing true but heaven ! 

What though no mystic cloud, nor flame, 
Led on the wanderers as they came ? 
By faith they saw the one true God 
Was guardian of the way they trod. 

1 Written for December 22, 1831. 



Hymn. 59 

God of our fathers, hear our prayer ! 
This church be still and long thy care ; 
And, grateful at this day's return, 
Fresh incense at thy shrine shall burn. 

How long shall erring mortals feel 
The exclusive, the unholy zeal 
The golden gates of heaven to close 
On all they dare to call thy foes ? 

These doors we open fling, and free 
To all, Great God, who call on thee ; 
If warm their hearts in Christian deeds, 
Who shall exclude them for their creeds ? 

Here may they drink from living springs 
The light and life the gospel brings ; 
And, healed by Siloa's waters, deem 
Thy power and bounty fed the stream. 

Rise ! Bethlehem's star, and spread thy blaze 

To every land in cheering rays, 

Till angels, in the glad employ, 

Cast down their crowns and shout for joy ! 

— Anonymous. 



60 Songs of the Pilgrims* 

ODE FOR THE 22d OF DECEMBER. 1 

Tune : America, 

O ONS of renowned sires ! 
^ Join in harmonious choirs, 

Swell your loud songs ; 
Daughters of peerless dames ! 
Come with your mild acclaims, 
Let their revered names 

Dwell on your tongues ! 

From frowning Albion's seat, 
See the famed band retreat, 

On ocean tost ; 
Blue tumbling billows roar, 
By keel scarce plowed before, 
And bear them to this shore, 

Fettered with frost. 

By yon wave-beaten Rock, 
See the illustrious flock 
Collected stand ; 

* Composed for the Anniversary Festival at Plymouth in 1792. 



Ode for the 2 2d of December. 61 

To seek some sheltering grove, 
Their faithful partners move, 
Dear pledges of their love 
In either hand. 

Not winter's sullen face, 
Not the fierce tawny race 

In arms arrayed ; 
Not hunger shook their faith, 
Not sickness' baleful breath, 
Nor Carver's early death, 

Their souls dismayed. 

Watered by heavenly dew 
The germ of empire grew, 

Freedom its root. 
From the cold Northern pine, 
Far toward the burning line, 
Spreads the luxuriant vine, 

Bending with fruit. 

Columbia ! child of heaven ! 
The best of blessings given 

Rest on thy head ; 
Beneath thy peaceful skies, 
While prosperous tides arise, 
Here turn thy grateful eyes, 

Revere the dead. 



62 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Afterward revised to: — 

[Columbia ! child of heaven ! 
The best of blessings given 

Be thine to greet ; 
Hailing this votive day, 
Looking with fond survey 
Upon the weary way 

Of Pilgrim feet.] 

Here trace the moss-grown stones, 
Where rest their moldering bones, 

Again to rise ; 
And let thy sons be led 
To emulate the dead, 
While o'er their tombs they tread 

With moistened eyes. 

Sons of renowned sires ! 
Join in harmonious choirs, 

Swell your loud songs ; 
Daughters of peerless dames ! 
Come with thy mild acclaims, 
Let their revered names 

Dwell on your tongues. 

— John Davis. 



Hymn for the 22d of December. 63 

HYMN FOR THE 22d OF DECEMBER.* 

Tune: Ferry. 

"TYT^HEN o'er the billows heaving deep, 

^ * The fathers of our race, 
The precepts of their God to keep, 

Sought here their resting-place, 

That gracious God their path prepared, 

Preserved from every harm, 
And still for their protection bared 

His everlasting arm. 

His breath, inspiring every gale, 

Impels them o'er the main, 
His guardian angel spreads the sail, 

And tempests howl in vain. 

For them old ocean's rocks are smoothed ; 

December's face grows mild ; 
To vernal airs her blasts are soothed, 

And all their rage beguiled. 

When Famine rolls her haggard eyes 

His ever-bounteous hand 
Abundance from the sea supplies, 

And treasure from the sand. 

1 Sung at the Forefathers' celebration of 1803. 



64 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Nor yet his tender mercies cease ; 

His over-ruling plan 
Inclines to gentleness and peace 

The heart of savage man. 

And can our stony bosoms be 

To all these wonders blind ? 
Nor swell with thankfulness to thee, 

O Parent of mankind ? 

All-gracious God ! inflame our zeal ; 

Dispense one blessing more — 
Grant us thy boundless love to feel, 

Thy goodness to adore. 

— John Quincy Adams. 



FROM "THE PRESENT CRISIS. "* 

rpHEY were men of present valor, stalwart 
^ old iconoclasts, 
Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was 

the past's ; 
But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking 

that hath made us free, 

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



From " TJie Present Crisis." 65 

Hoarding it in moldy parchments, while our ten- 
der spirits flee 

The rude grasp of that great impulse which 
drove them across the sea. 

They have rights who dare maintain them ; we 

are traitors to our sires, 
Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit 

altar-fires ; 
Shall we make their creed our jailer? shall we in 

our haste to slay, 
From the tombs of the old prophets steal the 

funeral lamps away 
To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets 

of to-day? 

New occasions teach new duties ; time makes 
ancient good uncouth ; 

TrTey must upward still, and onward, who would 
keep abreast of truth ; 

Lo ! before us gleam her camp-fires ! we our- 
selves must pilgrims be, 

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through 
the desperate winter sea, 

Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's 
blood-rusted key. 

— James Russell Lowell. 



66 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

HYMN FOR THE 22d OF DECEMBER. 

(1799.) 
Tune: Old Hundred. 

TZTAIL ! Pilgrim Fathers of our race, 

J — L With grateful hearts your toils we trace ; 

Again this votive clay returns, 

And finds us bending o'er vour urns. 

Jehovah's arm prepared the road : 
The heathen vanished at his nod ; 
He gave his vine a lasting root ; 
He loads its goodly boughs with fruit. 

The hills are covered with its shade ; 
Its thousand shoots like cedar spread ; 
Its branches to the sea expand, 
And reach to broad Superior's strand. 

Of peace and truth the gladsome ray 
Smiles in our skies and cheers the day : 
And a new empire's splendent wheels 
Roll o'er the top of Western hills. 

Hail ! Pilgrim Fathers of our race, 
With grateful hearts your toils we trace ; 
Oft as this votive day returns, 
We '11 pay due honors to your urns. 



An Ode. 67 

AN ODE. 

(1806.) 

Ask thy Father, and he will shew thee. — Moses. 
The Lord hath done great things for us. — Psalmist. 

"TTTITH sympathetic sway, 
* * Commemorate the day 
Our fathers came ; 

From England's hostile shore, 

By persecution sore, 

Crimsoned with martyrs' gore 
They crossed the main. 

An asylum to seek, 

They crossed the raging deep, 

Conscience their star ; 
By God's approving grace, 
It aids them to this place 
In this drear wilderness. 

God's name revere. 

By troubles drove from home, 
Amid stern winter's gloom, 
They landed here ; 

1 In commemoration of the landing of our Forefathers in Ply. 
mouth, December 22, 1620. 



68 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

No friend to give relief, 
Or mitigate their grief, 
But foes to mercy deaf, 
With bow and spear. 

They foes nor dangers fear, 
Nor winter's cold severe, 

Nor death's cold hand, 
That thinned them off apace, 
Nor godly Carver's death, 
All could not shake their faith, 

To quit the land. 

Then while we tread the soil, 
The blessings of their toil, 

We '11 not forget 
The end for which they came : 
To spread the gospel's fame ; 
While we enjoy the same, 

God's praise repeat. 

Sons of Columbia, join 
To praise the hand divine ; 

Daughters rejoice ; 
And as ye praise his name, 
Sing our Forefathers' fame, 
Who hither laid your claim. 

Loud raise your voice. 



The Pilgrims. 69 

Though yonder silent tombs 

Contain their moldering bones, 

Their names yet live ; 

The wonders they have done 

Shall go from son- to son, 

That people yet unborn 

Shall sing his praise. 

— F. B. 



THE PILGRIMS. 1 

"TV/TEN in the middle of life, austere and 

-^-*- grave in deportment, 

Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest 

to heaven, 
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent 

elder of Plymouth. 
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat 

for this planting, 
Then sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a 

nation ; 
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith 

of the people. 

— Longfellow. 

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



70 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



THE SAINTED SIEES. 



\\f HILE Pilgrim's sons, a festive throng, 
* * To sainted sires their homage pay. 
Be this the burthen, the burthen of their song, 
And rapture animate the lay : 

CHORUS. 

Hail, ye Pilgrims ! 

Ye sainted Pilgrims, hail ! 

Till hours, and years, and time shall fail. 

By heroes led, by virtue warmed, 

Conducted by the Almighty hand, 
They braved the ocean, the ocean and the storm, 

And freedom sought in unknown land. 

The perils of the ocean past. 

Fresh dangers quickly them surround : 

Shrill screams the savage, the savage o'er the 
blast, 
And rocks and hills repeat the sound. 

The barbarous foe to battle fly, 

Intent on bloody deeds and spoil ; 
Swift flies the arrow, the arrow through the sky, 

But victory crowns the Pilgrim's toil. 



From " Interview ivith Miles Standish" 71 

Success attend the good and brave, 
The meed of praise to them belongs ; 

Virtue shall triumph, shall triumph o'er the 
grave, 
And angels join their rapturous songs. 

Hail, ye Pilgrims ! 
Ye sainted Pilgrims, hail ! 
When earth, and sky, and time shall fail. 

— Anonymous. 



FROM "INTERVIEW WITH MILES 
STANDISH." 1 

The ghost drew up his chair 

And said : " My name is Standish. 
I come from Plymouth, deadly bored 

With toasts, and songs, and speeches, 
As long and flat as my old sword, 

As threadbare as my breeches ; 
They understand us Pilgrims ! They, 

Smooth men with rosy faces, 
Strength's knots and gnarls all pared away, 

And varnish in their places ! 

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



72 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

We had some toughness in our grain : 

The eye to rightly see us is 
Not just the one that lights the brain 

Of drawing-room Tyrtseuses ; 
They talk about their Pilgrim blood, 

Their birthright high and holy ! 
A mountain stream that ends in mud 

Me thinks is melancholy. 

— James Russell Lowell. 



FROM "BIGLOW PAPERS." 1 

That famous bark, 
That brought our sires intrepid, 

Capacious as another ark, 
For furniture decrepit ; 
For, as that saved of bird and beast 

A pair for -propagation, 
So has the seed of these increased 
And furnished half the nation. 

— James Russell Lowell. 

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



Hymn. 73 



HYMN. 1 

Tune: Old Hundred. 

/^YUR fathers' God ! to thee we raise, 
^- With one accord, the song of praise ; 
To thee our grateful tribute pay, 
Oft as returns this festal day. 

With tearful eyes we here will trace 
Thy wonders to the Pilgrim race, 
And while those wonders we explore, 
Their names extol, thy name adore. 

Our fathers' God ! thy own decree 
Ordained the Pilgrims to be free ; 
In foreign lands they owned thy care, 
And found a safe asylum there. 

When the wide main they traversed o'er, 
And landed on this sea-beat shore, 
The Pilgrims' Rock must e'er proclaim 
Thy guardian care was still the same. 

Our fathers' God ! while here we trace 
Our lineage to the Pilgrim race, 

1 Sung at Plymouth, 22 December, 1806. 



74 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

Oh, may we like those Pilgrims live, 
And in the sons the sires revive. 

Our fathers' God ! to thee we raise, 
With one accord, the song of praise ; 
To thee our grateful tribute pay, 
Oft as returns this festal day. 

— Abiel Holmes. 



SONG. 1 

Tune : Hail Columbia. 

rpHE Almighty gave the high behest — 
-*- Rise an empire in the West, 
Freedom's loved and last abode, 
Freedom's loved and last abode. 
Our fathers bowed to his decree, 
And dauntless braved an unknown sea, 
Climbed the foaming precipice, 
Plunged adown the black abyss, 
Where the maddening tempest raves, 
Where meet the sky the mountain waves. 

1 Sung at celebration of 22 December, 1806, New York. 



Song. 75 

CHORUS. 

Sons of freedom, swell the song ; 
To sainted sires the notes prolong, 
Till the echoing skies around 
Sound the trumpet-note rebound. 

Lo ! the heaven-protected band 
Seeks the forest-fringed strand. 

Roars the rough hybernal blast, 

Roars the rough hybernal blast. 
Countless perils wait them here, 
Sickness pale and famine drear, 

Pining want and dire disease 

Float in every blasting breeze ; 

Desolation's ghastly form 

Rides in every death-winged storm. 

Murderous hordes of savage foes 
Round the pious Pilgrims rose, 

With flinty hearts and blood-stained hands, 

With flinty hearts and blood-stained hands. 
From horror's haunts, in wilds immense, 
Lo ! the gloomy bands condense. 

Hark ! the war-whoop's frantic yell 

Bursts from yonder dismal dell ; 

Savage forms of demons dire 

Wrap the Pilgrims' camp in fire. 



76 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

The God at whose behest 

Rose an empire in the West, 
Freedom's loved and last abode, 
Freedom's loved and last abode, 

Protected still, with mighty hand, 

The Pilgrims in a barbarous land. 
Raise the song of festive mirth 
To those who gave an empire birth ; 
Their names and memories shall rest 
Enthroned in every freeman's breast. 

— Thomas Greene Fessenden. 



FROM "BIGLOW PAPERS." 1 

f~\ STRANGE new world, thet yit wast never 

^^ young ! 

Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was 

wrung, 
Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed 
Was prowled roun' by the Injun's cracklin' tread, 
An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' 

pains, 
Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains. 

— James Russell Lowell. 

1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



Song. 77 



SONG. 

(December 22, 1807.) 

TIT AIL ! sons of the Pilgrims, assembled to 
pay 
Festivity's rite to our fathers in glory ! 
Ma} 7 the ardor of friendship enliven the lay, 
And their virtues be told while we glow with 
the story. 

With the patriot's fire 
Be inflamed each desire, 
To all that is noble each bosom aspire ; 
For, long as old earth on her axle shall turn, 
On the altars of freemen pure incense should 
burn. 

When tyranny bigotry's banners upreared, 

Those fathers, for conscience, for freedom, 
self -banished, 
Confiding in heaven, o'er the wild billow steered, 
And in Holland found refuge, while bigotry 
vanished ; 

There, strangers awhile 

From their friends, from their isle, 



78 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

See them sojourn in hope, in adversity smile ; 
Till, raising again the white sail to the wind, 
They plow the rough main their own region to 
find. 

Long tossing in doubt o'er the 'wildering wave, 
The pilot yet timid to brave the commotion ; 
Them hailing to freedom, from perils to save, 
Columbia displayed her blue skirt from the 
ocean. 

In Plymouth they land, 
On the bleak, barren strand, 
Yet they 're strong in their shield — an Omnipo- 
tent hand : 
For there to their wanderings a period they find, 
And their brows with the laurels of freedom first 
bind. 

The savage his quiver exhausted in vain ; 

He rose, but his tomahawk idle descended ; 
Independent, the Pilgrims moved free o'er the 
plain ; 
Magnanimity nerved them, their bravery 
defended ; 

Though environed by foes, 
They found calm repose, 



Song. 79 

While the wilderness blossomed and smiled like 

the rose ; 
Till late to the grave as they smoothly declined, 
To their offspring their virtue, a birthright, 

resigned. 

When Albion their heirs to enslave vainly strove, 

When lunatic committed aggression, 
They lowered in the combat, the assailants hence 
drove, 
Independence they won, of their rights kept 
possession. 

Then oft will we tell, 
In the feast of the shell, 
The deeds of their fame, till with transports we 

swell ; 
And teach the sweet infant that smiles on his 

sire 
To pant for like fame, and to glow with like fire. 

Though society's base were by faction assailed, 
Or the bane of our safety by flattery were 

varnished ; 
Though the veteran be seen in his hamlet 

unmailed, 



80 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Retired from the council. bis laurels 
untarnished : 

Yet the foe on our coast. 
Lo ! he flies to his post : 
His valor impels, in himself he 's a host : 
And with him the sons of Xew England shall 

fly. 
Resolved to live honored, or nobly to die. 

Yes ; now from the East see aggression impend ! 
Ye venerable shades, your remembrance shall 
fire us : 
Our rights shall be sacred, our laws we '11 
defend ; 
Our Union shall strengthen, true glory inspire 
us ; 

If the bolt be but hurled. 
Shall our flags be unfurled : 
Though few, yet their fame shall extend o'er the 

world ; 
AVhile the honors and laurels that deck our brave 

tars 
Shall end but with time, and but fade with the 
stars ! 



From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." #1 

Thus, oft in our pilgrimage, memory shall glow 
As the tale of the past comes with pleasure 
attendant ; 
And the boast of our nation latest ages shall 
know — 
Our fathers in glory, their sons independent ! 
Then glad be your song, 
Ye convivial throng ! 
Roll, roll the full chorus of rapture along ! 
For, long as old earth on her axle shall turn, 
On the altars of freemen pure incense must burn. 
— Joseph Warren Bracket. 



FROM " THE COURTSHIP OF MILES 
STANDISH." l 

PRISCILLA. 

A S he opened the door, he beheld the form 
*^"*" of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool 

like a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the 
ravenous spindle, 
1 By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



82 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

While with her foot on the treadle she guided 

the wheel in its motion. 
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm- 
book of Ains worth, 
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music 

together ; 
Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the 

wall of a churchyard, 
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of 

the verses. 
Such was the book from whose pages she sang 

the old Puritan anthem, 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the 

forest, 
Making the humble house and the modest apparel 

of homespun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the 

wealth of her being ! 

" I have been thinking all day," said gently 

the Puritan maiden, 
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of 

the hedge-rows of England, — 
They are in blossom now, and the country is all 

like a garden ; 



From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." 83 

Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of 

the lark and the linnet, 
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of 

neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip 

together, 
And, at the end of the street, the village church, 

with the ivy 
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet 

graves in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me 

my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back 

in old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I can not help it ; I 

almost 
Wish myself back in old England, I feel so 

lonely and wretched." 

THE PROPOSAL. 

Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed, I 

do not condemn you ; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in 

this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a 

stronger to lean on ; 



84 • - Songs of the Pilgrims. 

So I have come to you now with an offer and 

proffer of marriage. 
Made by a good man and true, Miles Stand islu 

the captain of Plymouth ! " 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and 
eloquent language, 

Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of 
his rival, 

Archly the maiden smiled and, with eves over- 
running with laughter, 

Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you 
speak for yourself, John? " 

THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER. 

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows 
rejoiced at his coming ; 

Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the 
mountains ; 

Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at 
anchor, 

Battered and blackened and worn by all the 
storms of the winter. 

Loosely against her masts was hanging and flap- 
ping her canvas, 



From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." 85 

Rent by so many gales, and patched by the 

hands of the sailors. 
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the 

ocean, 
Darted a puff of smoke and floated seaward ; 

anon rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and 

the echoes 
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal gun 

of departure ! 
Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of 

the people ! 
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read 

from the Bible ; 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fer- 
vent entreaty. 
Then from their houses in haste came forth the 

Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
Men and women and children, all hurrying down 

to the sea-shore, 
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the 

Mayflower, 
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them 

here in the desert. 



86 . Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Meanwhile the master, alert, but with dignified 
air and important, 

Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the 
wind and the weather, 

Walked about on the sands, and the people 
crowded about him 

Saying a few last words, and enforcing his care- 
ful remembrance. 

Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were 
grasping a tiller, 

Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off 
to his vessel, 

Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and 
flurry, 

Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sick- 
ness and sorrow, 

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of noth- 
ing but gospel ! 

Lost in the sound of the oars was the last fare- 
well of the Pilgrims. 

O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in 
the Mayflower ! 

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand 
to the plowing ! 



From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." 87 

Soon were heard on board the shouts and 

songs of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the 

ponderous anchor. 
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to 

the west wind, 
Blowing steady and strong : and the Mayflower 

sailed from the harbor, 
Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving 

far to the southward 
Island and cape of sand and the field of the first 

encounter, 
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the 

open Atlantic, 
Borne on the send of the sea and the swelling 

hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail 
of the vessel, 

Much endeared to them all, as something living 
and human ; 

Then, as if filled with the Spirit, and wrapt in a 
vision prophetic, 

Baring his hoary head, the excellent elder of Ply- 
mouth 



88 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and 

thanked the Lord and took courage. 
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the 

rock, and above them 
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of 

death, and their kindred 
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in 

the prayer that they uttered. 
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of 

the ocean, 
Gleamed the departing sail like a marble slab in 

a graveyard : 
Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of 

escaping. 

THE WOOING. 

44 Truly, Priscilla," he said, u When I see you 
spinning, and spinning, 

Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful 
of others, 

Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly 
changed in a moment ; 

You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the beau- 
tiful spinner." 

Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter 
and swifter ; the spindle 



From "The Courtship of Miles jStandish" 89 

Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped 

short in her fingers ; 
While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the 

mischief, continued : 
u You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the 

Queen of Helvetia ; 
She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of 

Southampton, 
Who, as she rode on her palfrey o'er valley and 

meadow and mountain, 
Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff 

fixed to her saddle. 
She was so thrifty and good that her name 

passed into a proverb. 
So shall it be with your own, when the spinning- 
wheel shall no longer 
Hum in the house of the farmer and fill its 

chambers with music. 
Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it 

was in their childhood, 
Praising the good old times and the days of 

Priscilla the spinner ! " 
Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful 

Puritan maiden, 
Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him 

whose praise was the sweetest, 



90 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein 

of her spinning, 
Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering 

phrases of Alden : 
" Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern 

of housewives, 
Show yourself equally worthy of being the model 

of husbands. 
Hold this skein on your hands while I wind it, 

ready for knitting ; 
Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions 

have changed, and the manners, 
Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old 

times of John Alden ! " 
Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his 

hands she adjusted, 
He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms ex- 
tended before him, 
She standing graceful, erect, and winding the 

thread from his fingers, 
Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of 

holding, 
Sometimes touching his hands, as she dis- 
entangled expertly 
Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares, — for how 

could she help it ? — 



From "The Courtship of Miles Standish" 91 

Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in 
his body. 

Even as rivulets twain, from distant and sepa- 
rate sources, 
Seeing each other afar as they leap from the 

rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer 

and nearer, 
Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in 

the forest ; 
So these lives, that had run thus far in separate 

channels, 
Coming in sight of each other, then swerving 

and flowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer 

and nearer, 
Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the 

other. 

THE MARRIAGE. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the 
tent of purple and scarlet, 
Issued the sun, the great high priest, in his gar- 
ments resplendent ; 



92 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on 

his forehead, 
Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and 

pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the bars of 

vapor beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his 

feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the 

Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together ; the elder and 

magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence and stood 

like the law and the gospel, 
One with the sanction of earth and one with the 

blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding as that of 

Ruth and Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the 

words of betrothal, 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the 

magistrate's presence, 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom 

of Holland. 



On Her Mother. 9$ 

Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent elder 

of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home that were 

founded that day in affection, 

Speaking of life and of death, and imploring 

divine benedictions. 

— H. W. Longfellow. 



ON HER MOTHER. 

A WORTHY matron of unspotted life, 
-*--*- A loving mother and obedient wife ; 
A friendly neighbor, pitiful to poor, 
Whom oft she fed and clothed with her store ; 
To servants wisely awful, but yet kind, 
And as they did, so they reward did find ; 
A true instructor of her family, 
The which she ordered with dexterity. 
The public meetings ever did frequent, 
And in her closet constant hours she spent; 
Religious in all her words and waves, 
Preparing still for death till end of dayes ; 
Of all her children, children lived to see ; 
Then dying, left a blessed memory. 

— Anne Bradstreet. 



94 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 1 

Special Music. 

/"~10ME, listen to my story, 
^-^ Though often told before, 
Of men who passed to glory, 

Through toil and travail sore ; 
Of men who did for conscience' sake 

Their native land forego, 
And sought a home and freedom here, 

Two hundred years ago. 

Oh, 't was no earth-born passion 

That bade the adventurers stray ; 
The world and all its fashion 

With them had passed away. 
A voice from heaven bade them look 

Above the things below, 
When here they sought a resting-place, 

Two hundred years ago. 

Oh, dark the scene and dreary, 
When here they set them down, 

Of storms and billows weary, 
And chilled with winter's frown , 
1 Sung at Plymouth, 22 December, 1820. 



Two Hundred Years Ago. 95 

Deep moaned the forests to the wind, 

Loud howled the savage foe, 
While here their evening prayer arose, 

Two hundred years ago. 

5 T would drown the heart in sorrow 

To tell of all their woes ; 
No respite could they borrow, 

But from the grave's repose. 
Yet naught could daunt the Pilgrim Band, 

Or sink their courage low, 
Who came to plant the gospel here, 

Tivo hundred years ago. 

With humble prayer and fasting, 

In every strait and grief, 
They sought the everlasting, 

And found a sure relief. 
Their covenant God o'ershadowed them, 

Their shield from every foe, 
And gave them here a dwelling-place, 

Two hundred years ago. 

Of fair New England's glory 

They laid the corner-stone ; 
This praise, in deathless story, 

Their grateful sons shall own. 



96 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Prophetic, they foresaw in time 

A mighty state should grow 
From them, a few faint Pilgrims here, 

Two hundred years ago. 

If greatness be in daring, 

Our Pilgrim sires were great, 
Whose sojourn here, unsparing, 

Disease and famine wait ; 
And oft their treacherous foes combined 

To lay the strangers low, 
While founding here their commonwealth, 

Two hundred years ago. 

Though seeming oyer-zealous 

In things by us deemed light, 
They were but duly jealous 

Of power usurping right. 
They nobly chose to part with all 

Most dear to men below, 
To worship here their God in peace, 

Two hundred years ago. 

From seeds they sowed with weeping 

Our richest harvests rise ; 
We still the fruits are reaping 

Of Pilgrim enterprise. 



Anniversary Stanzas. 97 

Then grateful we to them will pay 

The debt of fame we owe, 
Who planted here the tree of life, 

Two hundred years ago. 

As comes this period yearly, 

Around our cheerful fires, 
We '11 think and tell how dearly 

Our comforts cost our sires. 
For them we '11 wake the votive song, 

And bid the canvas glow, 
Who fixed the home of freedom here, 

Two hundred years ago. 

— James Flint. 



A 1 



ANNIVERSARY STANZAS. 1 

(1808.) 

H ! 't is a barren shore 
To which we go ; 
And rough the billows roar, 

And tempests blow ! 
Poor Pilgrims have we come 
Hither to fix our home ; 
Or must we farther roam 

Through drifting snow ? 

1 Supposed to be sung by the Pilgrims on arrival. 



98 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

No ! by this sheltering hill 

A log-house rear : 
With clay each crevice fill, 

T' exclude the air : 
There covered from the storm, 
Our shivering limbs we '11 warm, 
And then in ample form 

The feast prepare. 

Though scanty be our store, 
And coarse our bread, 

The God who heretofore 
Elijah fed 

Will pity our distress, 

And for our neediness 

E'en in the wilderness 
A table spread. 

Already he displays 

His bounteous hand, 
In hoards of Indian maize 

Beneath the strand. 
He fills the empty cruse, 
Fine fish these seas produce, 
And treasures for our use 
Hides in the sand. 



Hymn. 99 

Since thus we freely share 

His kind supply, 
And on his guardian care 

Secure rely, 
Still may he succor lend, 
And may his grace descend, 
Our children to befriend, 

When we shall die. 

Author Unknown. 



HYMN. 1 



TTIATHER supreme of heaven and earth, 
-*- Creative Source of all ! 
Whence infant nations spring to birth, 
And empires rise and fall ! 

Thy throne, above the circling spheres, 
Shall stand while centuries roll ; 

Nor boundless space, nor endless years, 
Can limit thy control ! 

To him from whom our blessings flow, 

Who all our wants supplies, 
This day the choral song and vow 

From grateful hearts shall rise ! 

1 Sung at the Albany celebration of 22 December, 1820. 



100 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

'T was he who led the Pilgrim band 

Across the stormy sea ; 
'T was he who stayed the tyrant's hand, 

And set our empire free ! 

When shivering on a strand unknown, 

In sickness and distress, 
Our fathers looked to God alone, 

To save, protect, and bless. 

Be thou our nation's strength and shield, 

In manhood, as in youth ; 
Thine arm for our protection wield, 

And guide us by thy truth ! 



ODE FOR 22d DECEMBER. 

Tune : St. Martins. 

T ET children learn the mighty deeds 
-*-^ Their sires achieved of old ; 
And still, as time to time succeeds, 
To them the tale unfold. 

Here while we fondly trace the scene 

This joyous day recalls, 
Let youth with reverent age convene 

Within these hallowed walls. 



Ode for 22d December. 101 

Their pious toils, their just rewards, 

Returning tributes claim, 
While faithful history records 

Each venerable name. 

Here first the temple's votive fane, 

Aspiring, sought the skies, 
And here religion's exiled train 

Bade sacred altars rise. 

No longer now the roaming hordes 

Unhallowed vigils keep ; 
No more affrighted mothers guard 

Their cradled infants' sleep : 

But social arts and peaceful homes 

This favored land endear, 
Where fields and masts and rising domes, 

With scattered grace, appear. 

Let musing strangers view the ground, 

Here seek tradition's lore, 
Where Pilgrims walked on holy ground 

AVith God in days of yore ; 

And where around the savage tribe 
Alarmed with horrid yells, 



102 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Assembling crowds secure imbibe 
What holy legend tells. 

Let children emulate their deeds, 

Their choral praises sing ; 
So shall the Muse, as time proceeds, 

Her meed of incense bring. 

— Samuel Davis. 



w 



HYMN. 1 

HEN Israel's God had marked the way 
From persecution's fiery sway, 



Our fathers left their native land, 
Sustained by his almighty hand. 

His providence their trust and guide, 
Securely through the deep they glide ; 
A world unknown their hopes explore ; 
By faith they reach the promised shore. 

Fervent the Christian Pilgrims raise 
On heathen soil their shouts of praise ; 
AYith thankful hearts aloud proclaim 
In heathen lands Jehovah's name. 

i Sung at the Albany celebration of 22 December, 1S20. 



Selections from a Hymn. 103 

Jehovah's name ! the hills rejoice, 
Glad nature owns her Maker's voice ; 
The wilderness breaks forth in songs 
To him to whom all praise belongs. 

Let all their children rise, and bring 
Their grateful incense to our King ; 
In his fair courts their voices raise, 
And fill the land with songs and praise ! 



SELECTIONS FROM A HYMN. 1 

f^\ OD of our Fathers — Zion's King ! 
^-^ With eye propitious now behold, 
While in thy house thy praise we sing, 
And celebrate thy works of old. 

Like Israel, our New England sires, 

By cruel persecution driven, 
Through dearths and deserts, seas and fires, 

Followed the guiding hand of heaven. 

To heaven, their home, their prayer ascends, 
For they were Pilgrims on the earth ; 

Exiled from country, kindred, friends, 
They sought the land which gave us birth. 
1 Sung at Haverhill, Mass., 22 December, 1820. 



104 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

For this they plowed the wintry main, 
And braved the dangers of the deep ; 

Cheerful and patient under pain, 

For Christ was with them in the ship. 

Now on Columbia's savage coast, 

Escaped from shipwreck and from storm, 

Behold the feeble, shivering host — 
Their pious hearts alone were warm. 

Heroic souls ! New England's pride ! 

For us who could all dangers brave 
They toiled, they prayed, they bled, they died- 

Nor found their rest but in the grave. 

May we, their sons, thy praise acclaim, 
The God our fathers loved adore ; 

Our children's children fear thy name, 
Till suns shall rise and set no more. 



r"pHAT little Mayflower, conveyed by the winds 

And the rude waters to our rocky shore, 
Shall scatter freedom's seed throughout the world ; 
And all the nations of the earth shall come 
Singing to share the harvest-home of truth. 1 

— Lowell. 

!By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



The First Thanksgiving. 105 



THE FIRST THANKSGIVING. 

(1621.) 
EDWARD WINSLOW's STORY. 

"TTTE had gathered in our harvests, 

* * And stored the yellow grain, 
For God had sent the sunshine, 

And sent the plenteous rain ; 
Our barley-land and corn-land 

Had yielded up their store, 
And the fear and dread of famine 

Oppressed our homes no more. 

As the chosen tribes of Israel, 

In the far years of old, 
When the summer fruits were garnered, 

And before the winter's cold, 
Kept their festal week with gladness, 

With songs and choral lays, 
So we kept our first Thanksgiving 

In the hazy autumn days. 

Through the mild months of summer, 
We had built us pleasant homes, 

So that now we fear no danger, 
When the angry winter comes ; 



106 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

We can sit by cheerful firesides, 

And watch the flickering ray, 
When the storms of ocean gather, 

And howl around the bay. 

We think with grief and sadness 

Of the gloomy months gone by, 
When want was in our dwellings, 

And we saw our loved ones die ; 
But when our well-filled garners 

Moved all our hearts to praise, 
We kept our glad Thanksgiving 

In the soft October l days. 

We sent our keen-eyed gunners 

To the forest-haunts for game, 
And with ample wealth of wild fowl, 

Rejoicing home they came ; 
And our good Indian neighbors, 

With whom we live in peace. 
Brought in their gift of hunted deer, 

Our larder to increase. 

1 Mr. Tarbox thinks it probable that the first Thanksgiving 
took place in October. See article in New England for March, 
1879. 



The First Thanksgiving. 107 

And Massasoit, the chieftain, 

Was present with us then ; 
He came to share our banquet, 

With his ninety dusky men ; 
So for three days we feasted, 

With sports, and games, and plays, 
And kept our first Thanksgiving 

In the fair autumnal days. 

The winds breathed gently on us 

From out the mild south-west ; 
They come, the Indians tell us, 

From the islands of the blest ; 
And the sun and moon looked kindly 

From the still heights above, 
As if to cheer our banquet, 

And bless our feast of love. 

And our brave Captain Standish, 

Brought up 'mid war's alarms, 
Led out his small but trusty band, 

His sturdy men-at-arms ; 
He showed the Indian warriors 

Our military ways ; 
For so we kept Thanksgiving 

In those hazy autumn days. 



108 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

We thought of dear old England, 

Dear, though to us unkind ; 
Of the fond familiar faces 

That we had left behind ; 
But England can not wean us 

Back from our forest home, 
Where we lay our sure foundations 

For the better years to come. 

So we passed the days in gladness, 

In social joy and mirth, 
As those who have their dwelling-place 

As yet upon the earth ; 
But to the Lord our God we brought 

Our gifts of prayer and praise ; 
So we kept our first Thanksgiving 

In the dreamy autumn days. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY. 

A.D. 1622. 

A ND now," said the governor, gazing abroad 
-£^- on the piled-up store 

Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and 
covered the meadows o'er, 



The First Thanksgiving Day. 109 

"'Tis meet that we render praises because of 

this yield of grain ; 
Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be 

thanked for his sun and rain. 

"And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the 
grace of God to-day, 

And the franchise of this good people) , gov- 
ernor of Plymouth, say, — 

Through virtue of vested power, — ye shall 
gather with one accord 

And hold, in the month of November, Thanks- 
giving unto the Lord. 

i; He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the 

quiet we 've sought so long ; 
He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him 

from wrack and wrong : 
And unto our feast the sachem shall be bidden, 

that he ma} 7 know 
We worship his own Great Spirit, who maketh 

the harvests grow. 

"So shoulder your matchlocks, masters; there 

is hunting of all degrees ; 
And fishermen, take your tackle and scour for 

spoil the seas ; 



110 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your 

delicate crafts employ 
To honor our first Thanksgiving, and make it a 

feast of joy ! 

" We fail of the fruits and dainties, we fail of 

the old home cheer ; 
Ah ! these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that 

befall us here. 
But see ! in our open clearings how golden the 

melons lie ! 
Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us 

the pumpkin-pie ! " 

So, bravely the preparations went on for the 
autumn feast : 

The deer and the bear were slaughtered ; wild 
game from the greatest to least 

Was heaped in the colony cabins ; brown home- 
brew served for wine ; 

And the plum and the grape of the forest for 
orange and peach and pine. 

At length came the day appointed ; the snow 

had begun to fall, 
But the clang of the meeting-house belfry rang 

merrily over all, 



The First Thanksgiving Day. Ill 

And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who has- 
tened with glad accord 

To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently 
thanked the Lord. 

In his seat sate Governor Bradford ; men, ma* 

trons, and maidens fair ; 
Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corslet 

and sword were there ; 
And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in 

its turn the sway, 
For the grave of sweet Rose Standish o'ershad- 

owed Thanksgiving day. 

And when Massasoit, the sachem, sate down 

with his hundred braves, 
And ate of the varied riches of gardens and 

woods and waves, 
And looked on the granaried harvest, with a 

blow on his brawny chest, 
He muttered : " The Good Spirit loves his white 

children best ! " 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



112 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



ODE. 1 

rn.HE Pilgrim Fathers — where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 

As they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 

When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrims' sleep 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride ; 
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the 
gale 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone : 
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! 

The hill, whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 

1 For the celebration of 22 December, 1824. 



Ode. 113 

And the moon's cold light as it lay that night, 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the Pilgrim — where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest. 

When summer 's throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure 
dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who have 
bled, 
And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower 
lay 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 

— John Pierpont. 



114 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



HYMN. 1 

Tune : Scots, wha ha\ 

TTOLY spot ! where glowing choirs 
-■—*- Oft have wakened grateful lyres, 
Oft have kindled grateful fires, 
O'er the Pilgrim's grave. 

Once again we press the shore 
Where our fathers sternly swore 
Ocean should forget to roar, 

Ere they would be slaves. 

Hail the dawn when Freedom's rays 
Hushed Columbia's icy face, 
Sweeter strains arise of praise 

Than from Memnon's harp. 

Hail the spot — our sires' retreat ! 
Hail the waves that round them beat ! 
Hail the rock that bore their feet, 

When their wanderings ceased ! 

Fancy paints in yonder bay 
The bark that broke the Pilgrims' way, 
The cradle where our nation lay 
In her infant days. 

1 Sung at Pilgrim Hall at the celebration of 1824. 



Hymn. 115 

See the boat approach the land, 
Freighted with the pious band, 
See, they kneel upon the strand, 
Warm with gratitude. 

Vent your fury, wind and flood, 
Freedom's bark is safely moored, 
Freedom's sons with hearts assured, 
Now their work begin. 

Gloomy scenes await the brave ; 
Savage foes around them rave ; 
Carver fills an early grave ; 

Hope well-nigh expires. 

But to Faith's reluming eye. 
Visions bright in prospect lie ; 
E'en a triumph 't were to die, 
If in conscience free. 

Still above the sacred dead, 
Future crowds shall yearly tread ; 
Blooming youth and hoary head 
Meet around their urns. 

Oft shall Genius' fluent tongue 
Trace the story, swell the song ; 
Oft amidst the listening throng 
Thrill the feeling soul. 



116 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Ye who 've sprung from noble blood, 
Men who spurned the tyrant's rod, 
Men who bowed to none but God, 
Here your vows repeat : 

14 By their pious shades we swear, 
By their toils and perils here, 
We will guard with jealous care 
Law and Liberty.' ' 

— William P. Lunt. 



THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 

(1829.) 

"TTTILD was the day ; the wintry sea 

* * Moaned sadly on New England's strand, 
When first the thoughtful and the free, 
Our fathers, trod the desert land. 

They little thought how pure a light, 
With years, should gather round that day ; 
How love should keep their memories bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should sway. 



Original Hymn. 117 

Green are their bays ; but greener still 

Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, 

And regions, now untold, shall thrill 

With reverence, when their names are 
breathed. 

Till where the sun, with softer fires, 

Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, 
The children of the Pilgrim sires 

This hallowed day like us shall keep. 

— William Cullen Bryant. 



ORIGINAL HYMN. 

T ONG persecuted and oppressed, 
-*^* The exiled Pilgrim band, 
In search of liberty and rest, 
Came to a desert land. 

God deigned their enterprise to bless, 
And gave the wished repose ; 

And, glad for them, the wilderness 
Soon blossomed as the rose. 



118 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Schools, churches, and the ministry 

Their earliest cares engage ; 
The glory of their times to be, 

And of each coming age. 

The benefits which hence arise, 

On us heaven kindly showers, 
And shows us, by the rich supplies, 

Our fathers' God is ours. 

— Thaddeus Mason Harris. 



THE PRICE OF A LITTLE PILGRIM. 

(A.D. 1621.) 

f^\ O, wind the signal-horn, and bid 
^^ My band of trusty men 
Come stern and grim, in fighting trim, 
That I may choose me ten. 

u They may not wait to kiss their wives, 
For there 's a life at cost, — 
A tender one, — the widow's son, 
Ralf Billington, is lost; 



The Price of a Little Pilgrim. 119 

"The pretty lad that often drew 
My sword, and vowed that yet 
He 'd march away some summer day 
And capture Aspinet." 

So spake the Plymouth governor, 

And at the signal sound 
Forth came the band at his command, 

And crowded eager round. 

" Ten only," Governor Bradford said, 
" Will fill the boat enow; 
I want but ten strong-handed men, 
Now which of you will go ? " 

They shouted, " I ! " " And I ! " " And I ! " 
" Nay, hold ! " he bade, "1*11 find 

Some Gideon test to mark the best ; 
The rest shall bide behind. 

"Ye who are fathers, — ye whose homes 
Are glad with children's joy, — 
Your quest, I wot, will slacken not, 
Till ye have found the boy." 

The shallop manned, they searched the coast, 

They beat the tangled wild ; 
And sought to trace, in many a place, 

Some tidings of the child. 



120 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



They steered through silent, sheltered coves, 
They skimmed the marshes wide ; 

And all around the shallows wound, 
With Squanto for their guide. 

At length they saw a curl of smoke 

Float o'er the distant trees ; 
And all about, the whoop and shout 

Came blown upon the breeze. 

Scarce had they landed, when the cry 

Of " Yengese ! " rent the air ; 
And even before they touched the shore, 

The foe was yelling there, 

Each with his arrow drawn to head. 

" Stay ! stay ! " cried Squanto, " Let 
True braves be friends ; our sachem sends 

To you his calumet. 

The mother in her wigwam weeps, 

Bereft of peace and joy ; 
Now we would know if it be so 

That ye have found her boy ? " 

Ugh ! " growled the wily Aspinet ; 

" What will the Yengese grant, 
If I set loose the white papoose, 

And bring him from Nahant? " 



££ 



TJie Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 121 

" Name what ye will ! " the captain cried, 
" So much we prize his life ! " 
The sachem heard, and with brief word 
Muttered, " A knife ! a knife ! " 

" Good ! " and the captain grimly smiled 
Aside ; " and yet I trow 
The dame will be scarce pleased that we 
Should rate her boy so low ! 

" Go, Squanto, hither fetch the lad ; 
And lest it will not do, 
For one jack-knife to buy a life, 
Why, Squanto, give him two ! " 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

rpHE breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 
Their giant branches tossed ; 



122 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ! 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ! 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that Pilgrim band ; 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 



New England. 123 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay ! call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they found, 

Freedom to worship God ! 

— Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 



NEW ENGLAND. 

TTAIL to the land whereon we tread, 

Our fondest boast ; 
The sepulcher of mighty dead, 
The truest hearts that ever bled, 
Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, 

A fearless host. 



124 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

No slave is here ; our unchained feet 
Walk freely as the waves that beat 
Our coast. 

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave 

To seek this shore ; 
They left behind the coward slave 
To welter in his living grave ; 
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, 

They sternly bore 
Such toils as meaner souls had quelled, 
But souls like these such toils impelled 

To soar. 

There is no other land like thee, 

No dearer shore ; 
Thou art the shelter of the free ; 
The home, the port of Liberty, 
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, 

Till time is o'er. 
Ere I forget to think upon 
My land, shall mother curse the son 

She bore. 

— ./. G. Pereival. 



The First Proclamation of Miles Standish. 125 

THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES 
STANDISH. 

(November, A.D. 1620.) 

I I O ! " quoth the stout Miles Standish, 

~* — *- As he stood on the Mayflower's deck, 
And gazed on the sandy coast-line, 
That loomed as a misty speck 

On the edge of the distant offing, — 

" See ! yonder we have in view 
Bartholomew Gosn old's headlands. 

'T was in sixteen hundred and two 

"That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored 
Just there where the beach is broad, 
And the merry old captain named it 
(Half-swamped by the fish) Cape Cod. 

"And so, as his mighty headlands 
Are scarcely a league away, 
What say you to landing, Sweetheart, 
And having a washing-day? 

"For did not the mighty leader, 
Who guided the chosen band, 
Pause under the peaks of Sinai, 
And issue his strict command 



126 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

" (For even the least assoilment 
Of Egypt the Spirit loathes), 
Or ever they entered Canaan, 

The people should wash their clothes ? 

"The land we have left is noisome, 
And rank with the smirch of sin ; 
The land that we seek should find us 
Clear-vestured without and within." 

Dear heart — and the sweet Rose Standish 
Looked up with a tear in her eye ; 

She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen 
Where she watched, in the days gone by, 

Her mother among her maidens 

(She should watch them no more, alas !), 
And saw as they stretched the linen 

To bleach on the Suffolk grass. 

In a moment her brow was cloudless, 
As she leaned on the vessel's rail, 

And thought of the sea-stained garments, 
Of coif, and of farthingale ; 

And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel, 
The tuckers and homespun gowns, 

And the piles of the hosen knitted 
From the wool of the Devon Downs. 



The First Proclamation of Miles Standish. 127 

So the matrons aboard the Mayflower 

Made ready with eager hand 
To drop from the deck their baskets 

As soon as the prow touched land. 

And there did the Pilgrim mothers, 

On a Monday, the record says, 
Ordain for their new-found England 

The first of her washing-days. 

And there did the Pilgrim fathers, 
With matchlock and axe well slung, 

Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles 
That propt on the crotchets hung. 

For the trail of the startled savage 

Was over the marshy grass, 
And the glint of his eyes kept peering 

Through cedar and sassafras. 

And the children were mad with pleasure 
As they gathered the twigs in sheaves, 

And piled on the fire the fagots, 
And heaped up the autumn leaves. 

Do the thing that is next, saith the proverb, 

And a nobler shall yet succeed : 
'T is the motive exalts the action ; 

'T is the doing, and not the deed: 



128 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

For the earliest act of the heroes 
Whose fame has a world-wide sway 

Was — to fashion a crane for a kettle, 
And order a washing-day ! 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



THE PILGRIMS' DAY. 1 

"TTXITH joy I heard them, say 
* ^ When roving far abroad, 
On this their landing-day 

We '11 praise the Pilgrims' God. 

I knew the cry, 
I '11 join the song, 
Thy courts we '11 throng, 
O Thou most high ! 

This day let all awake, 

And sing the mighty dead 
Who, first, for Zion's sake, 
O'er raging oceans fled. 

Had not our God 
Preserved that flock, 
Safe on the rock 

They ne'er had trod. 

1 By a member of the New England Society of New York. 



Ode. 129 

At once their temples rose, 

Our schools were founded then, 
Nor could their mightier foes 
Withstand those valiant men : 

But vain their skill, 
And vain their sword, 
Had not the Lord 

Upheld them still. 

Peace to that holy ground ! 

That consecrated spot ! 
The first our fathers found 
Where tyrants trouble not. 

We '11 sound abroad, 
Where'er we roam, 
The Pilgrims' home, 
The Pilgrims' God. 



ODE. 1 

Tune : America. 

IONS of New England sires ! 
Why do your altar-fires 
Flame up on high ; 

1 For the 34th Anniversary of the New England Society. 



s< 



130 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Why from your festal board 
Wakes the loud anthem, pour'd 
Joyous, with one accord, 
Winged for the sky ? 

Not for the voice that spoke 
Triumph, when Britain's yoke 

Burst with your chains ; 
Not for the heroes brave, 
Bleeding by Charles's wave, 
Not for the patriots' grave, 

Wake ye your strains ; 

But for the Pilgrim band, 
They who from Leyden's land 

Dared the rough sea ; 
Braving the ocean vast, 
Scorning the wintry blast, 
So they might find, at last, 

Eoom for the free. 

Hark, how the thunder peals ! 
See, how the brave ship reels, 

Whirled in the brine ! 
Courage ! the God that wears 
Storm-robes, the good man spares. 
Pilgrim ! he hears your prayers, 

Joy to your line ! 



Ode. 131 

Nobly the Mayflower bows, 
While the dark wave she plows 

On to the West ; 
Till, from the tempest's shock, 
Proudly she lands her flock, 
Where on old Plymouth Rock, 

Freedom found rest. 

Lo ! from yon starry sphere, 
Spirits in light appear, 

Glorious, but few. 
Pilgrims ! we see you now, 
Fathers ! to you we bow, 
Hear, then, your children's vow, 

Still to be true. 

Join, brothers, heart and hand, 
Sons of the Pilgrim band ! 

Swear now to be 
All that your fathers sought, 
All that their virtue wrought, 
So shall your sons be taught 

How to be free ! 

— JRiifus Dawes. 



132 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS: AN ODE. 

n^HEY come — that coiuing who shall tell? 
The eye may weep, the heart may swell, 
But the poor tongue in vain essays 
A fitting note for them to raise. 
AVe hear the after-shout that rings 
For them who smote the power of kings ; 
The swelling triumph all would share ; 
But who the dark defeat would dare, 
And boldly meet the wrath and woe 
That wait the unsuccessful blow? 
It were an envied fate, we deem, 
To live a land's recorded theme, 

AVhen we are in the tomb. 
We, too, might yield the joys of home, 
And waves of winter darkness roam, 

And tread a shore of bloom, 

Knew we those waves, through coming time, 
Should roll our names to every clime ; 
Felt we that millions on that shore 
Should stand, our memory to adore. 
But no glad vision burst in light 
Upon the Pilgrims' aching sight ; 



The Pilgrim Fathers: An Ode. 133 

Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; 
Deep shadows veiled the way they held ; 
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame ; 
Their monument — a grave without a name. 

Yet. strong in weakness, there they stand, 

On yonder ice-bound Rock, 
Stern and resolved, that faithful band, 

To meet fate's rudest shock. 

Though anguish rends the father's breast, 
For them, his dearest and his best, 

With him the waste who trod ; 
Though tears that freeze, the mother sheds, 
Upon her children's houseless heads, 

The Christian turns to God. 

In grateful adoration now 

Upon the barren sands they bow. 

What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer 

As bursts in desolation there ? 

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power 

As waits to crown that feeble hour? 

There into life an infant empire springs ; 
There falls the iron from the soul ; 
There Liberty's young accents roll 

Up to the King of kings. 



134 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

To fair creation's farthest bound 

That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; 

The dreaming nations shall awake, 

And to their center earth's old kingdoms shake. 

Pontiff and prince, your sway 

Must crumble from that day ; 

Before the loftier throne of heaven 

The hand is raised, the pledge is given, 

One monarch to obey, one creed to own — 

That monarch, God, that creed, his Word alone. 

Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; 
A zeal like this what pious legends tell ! 
On kingdoms built 
In blood and guilt, 
The worshipers of vulgar triumph dwell ! 

But what exploits with theirs shall page 
Who rose to bless their kind, 

Who left their nation and their age 
Man's spirit to unbind ! 

Who boundless seas passed o'er, 
And boldly met, in every path, 
Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, 

To dedicate a shore 



The Pilgrim Fathers: An Ode. 135 

Where Piety's meek train might breathe their 

vow, 
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; 
Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come, 
And set up there an everlasting home ! 
Oh, many a time it hath been told, 
The story of those men of old. 
For this fair Poetry hath wreathed 

Her sweetest, purest flower ; 
For this proud Eloquence hath breathed 

His strain of loftiest power ; 
Devotion, too, hath lingered round 
Each spot of consecrated ground, 

And hill and valley blessed ; 
There, where our banished fathers strayed, 
There, where they loved, and wept, and prayed, 

There, where their ashes rest. 

And never may they rest unsung 
While Liberty can find a tongue. 
Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them, 
More deathless than the diadem, 
Who to life's noblest end 

Gave up life's noblest powers, 
And bade the legacy descend 
Down, down to us and ours ! 

Charles Sprague. 



136 Songs of the Pilgrims, 



THE PILGRIM MOTHERS. 

HHHE sculptor's art has striv'u 

And bards have strung their lyres 
To celebrate the deeds 

Of our brave Pilgrim sires; 

But written in the sand, 

As fleeting their few names, 

The virtues who shall paint 
Of our meek Pilgrim demies? 

Wife, widow, matron, maid — 
Who braved the stormy sea, 

And worthy to become 
The mothers of the free ! 

With their more hardy mates — 

Age leaning upon youth, 
From whose soft eyes beamed forth 

The soul of love and truth ! 

And when the Mayflower's bark 
Neared the unfriendly strand, 

Was not a woman first 
Upon the Rock to land ? 



The Pilgrim Mothers. 137 

While later o'er the deep, 

Her infant by her side, 
Sweet Alice Southworth came 

To be the Governor's bride. 

As from the vessel's side 

The Pilgrims disembark, 
Borne o'er the waves dry shod, 

Religion's sacred ark, 

So, hallowed by their feet 

Yon islet at length trod, 
The Lord's day first they spent 

In prayer and praise to God ; 

Then sent a chosen few 

Each inlet to explore, 
And find a place to land 

Upon the hostile shore. 

Miles Standish— - captain bold, 

Who was no carpet knight, 
And modest still as brave, — 

A hero in the fight, — 

(Whose " Courtship " our loved bard 

So quaintly could rehearse, 
Its memory enshrined 

In his, idyllic verse, 



138 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

And tell by proxy how 
John Alden ill had sped 

His wooing, who, maid's wit, 
Priscilla Mdllins wed) , 

First offering thanks to God 
Upon his bended knee, 

With grave and anxious mien 
Supporting tenderly 

A woman's fragile form^ 
Amid December's snows, 

Transferred to alien soil — 

New England's loveliest Eose ! 

Around whose rugged stem 
Its tendrils close entwine, 

Grace wedded still with strength, 
The oak clasped by the vine. 

Vain were it, too, to tell 
Of that first winter dread, 

When scarce enough survived 
E'en to inter the dead. 

With pining want and pain 
And sickness oft laid low ; 

Assailed by savage beasts, 
And the more savage foe. 



The Pilgrim Mothers. 139 

When Carver first of all — 

Who led the little band, 
The pillar of the state — 

Went to the better land, 

With " Elder Brewster," sage, 
Whose " Chair " too we revere. 

Next, Bradford, annalist, 
Its chief who knew no fear ! 

So, let the shaft arise, 

Of native granite wrought, 
To our brave sires devote, 

And lofty as their thought, 

Upon yon windy height, 

With pious tears besprent, 
Which speaks of faith and hope — 

The Pilgrims' Monument ! 

Nor less the gentler sex. 

In modest garb arrayed, 
Who both could " toil " and " spin," 

The matron and the maid. 

The " age of homespun" theirs, 

Of which we glibly prate, 
Whose virtues — " homespun ," too — 

We well may imitate ! 



140 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

On that lone ancient hill 

Whose base the ocean laves, 

Concealed from friend or foe, 

They sleep in u unmarked graves." 

Save the few spirits rare 

Whose names to our lips rise, 

Who live to bless the race 
With loving ministries ; 

Before whose luster bright 

The warrior's glory pales : 
The Clara Bartons famed, 

Or Florence Nightingales ! 

With anthem and with psalm 

So celebrate their worth — 
The heroines whose type 

Is perished from the earth ! 

God of our Pilgrim sires. 

For their faith we praise thee ! 

Joined with our Pilgrim dames, 
Through blest eternity ! 

— E. W. Bobbins. 



Song, of the Pilgrims. 141 



SONG OF THE PILGRIMS. 

rp HE breeze has swelled the whitening sail, 
-^ The blue waves curl beneath the gale, 
And, bounding with the wave and wind, 
We leave old England's shores behind. 
Leave behind our native shore, 
Homes, and all we loved before. 

The deep may clash, the winds may blow, 

The storm spread out its wings of woe, 

Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud 

Hung in the folds of every cloud ; 
Still, as long as life shall last, 
From that shore we '11 speed us fast. 

For we would rather never be, 
Than dwell where mind can not be free, 
But bows beneath a despot's rod 
Even where it seeks to worship God. 

Blasts of heaven, onward sweep ! 

Bear us o'er the troubled deep ! 

Oh, see what wonders meet our eyes ! 
Another land, and other skies ! 
Columbian hills have met our view ! 



142 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Adieu ! Old England's shores, adieu ! 
Here, at length, our feet shall rest, 
Hearts be free, and homes be blessed. 

As long as yonder firs shall spread 
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head — 
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand, 
Where join the ocean and the land — 

Shall those cliffs and mountains be 

Proud retreats for liberty. 

Now to the King of kings we '11 raise 
The paean loud of sacred praise ; 
More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, 
More loud than speak the rolling seas ! 

Happier lands have met our view ! 

England's shores, adieu ! adieu ! 

— T. C. Upham. 



THE MAYFLOWER. 

S~\ LITTLE fleet ! that on thy quest divine 
^S Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn 

morn, 
Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne 
A freight of Faith and Hope to match with thine ? 



The Mayflower. 143 

Say, too, has heaven's high favor given again 
Such consummation of desire as shone 
About Columbus, when he rested on 
The new-found world, and married it to Spain? 

Answer, thou refuge of the freeman's need, 
Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out, 
Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt, 
Thou simple Mayflower of the salt sea mead ! 

When thou wert wafted to that distant shore, 
Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odors, met thee 

not ; 
Stern nature hailed thee to a sterner lot, 
God gave free earth and air, and gave no more. 

Thus to men cast in that heroic mold 
Came empire such as Spaniard never knew, 
Such empire as beseems the just and true ; 
And, at the last, almost unsought, came gold. 

But He who rules both calm -and stormy days 
Can guard that people's heart, that nation's 

health, 
Safe on the perilous heights of power and 

wealth, 
As in the straitness of the ancient ways. 

— Lord Houghton. 



144 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



HYMX.i 

Tune : Tarn worth, 

O ! the rising star of Freedom 
-^ Once our Pilgrim Fathers blest ; 
By her light ordained to lead them 
To the land of promised rest. 
Star of heaven ! 
Star of heaven ! 
Traveling towards the distant West. 

While their countless toils enduring. 

Faith the promise kept in sight ; 
For themselves and sons securing 
Home and country, truth and light. 
Star of heaven ! 
Star of heaven ! 
Pointing to Jehovah's might. 

Now the relics round us lying. 

Grateful children guard their clay ! 
While their spirits, never dying, 
Hope has borne on wings away. 
Star of heaven ! 
Star of heaven ! 
Guiding to a brighter day. 

1 For 2-2 December, 1831. 



St. Botolph's Chimes. 145 

Raise we honors to their merit, 

Temples sculptured with their name ? 
No ! their virtues to inherit, 

Seals their bright and conscious fame. 
Star of heaven ! 
Star of heaven ! 
High they shine with ceaseless flame. 

See the lights around us gleaming, 
Still to guide the pilgrim's eyes ; 
See the star of empire beaming, 
Bids their children's glory rise ! 
Star of heaven ! 
Star of heaven ! 
Glowing still in Western skies. 

— Samuel Deane. 



ST. BOTOLPH'S CHIMES. 

(A J>. 1640.) 
PURITAN AND HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER SPEAK ON 
THEIR CHURCHWARD WAY. 

f~\ father, I wish I could go to church 
^^ As we did in the dear old times, 
When we waited to hear the Sunday cheer 
Of St. Botolph's morning chimes ! 



146 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

'T was lovely to walk through the leafy lanes 

In the beautiful English May ; 
And I marvel now, as I think of it, how 

You ever could come away. 

I want to go back to my oaken seat, 

Where the great round oriel shed 
Its crimsons and blues and golden hues, 

All over my hands and head. 

As I watched their glory, the service seemed 

So holj 7 and rich and bright ! 
How tender the glow beside this snow, 

All sheeted and dead and white ! 

And the carbines, father ; they only hung, 

At home, in the great oak hall ; 
Here, we take them abroad to the house of God, 

Yet shiver with fear, for all ! 

Oh, to mix with the crowd in the dear old street, 

In safety and warmth and ease ! 
Oh, to wait for the swells of St. Botolph's bells, 

In Boston beyond the seas ! 

Nay, daughter ! . It irks my heart to hear 

Thee hanker as those of old, 
With tears on thy cheeks, for Egyptian leeks, 

Because thou art scared and cold. 



St. Botolph's Chimes. 147 

Why, where is the hero-spirit, child? 

Thy mother forsook her Devon 
For an exile here, with a trust as clear 

As if she were going to heaven ! 

Yea, over thy face the oriel's glint 
Might shimmer with warming glow ; 

But for me the touch of the priestly clutch 
Was chiller than Shawmut's snow ! 

I 'm willing to fight for leave to pray, 
And wade with my carbine slung 

On my shoulder, and so all chimes forego 
St. Botolph hath ever i*ung, 

To carry thee thus to church to-day, 

As stoutly my strong arm can, 
And order my faith as my conscience saith, 

A free and a fearless man ! 

But, sweetheart, patiently thou must wait, 
For I dream of an end of pains, 

In which thou shalt walk in tender talk, 
Through better than English lanes, 

With comrades as kind as ever strayed 

Beside thee o'er Lincoln leas, 
Or listened betimes to St. Botolph's chimes, 

In Boston beyond the seas ! 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



148 Songs of (he Pilgrims. 



ANNIVERSARY HYMN.i 

Tune : St. Martins. 

T O ! where of old the fathers dwelt, 
-^-^ From home and temples dear, 
And oft in prayer devoutly knelt, 
Their children would appear. 

And round thine altar, God of grace ! 

With reverent homage stand, 
Through ages past thy love to trace 

In this our favored land. 

By faith inspired with steadfast mind, 

To shun oppression's rage, 
The Pilgrims here their steps inclined, 

Bright heralds of their aoe. 

No golden mines their visions lured, 
No conqueror's pride was theirs ; 

The soul's pure worship once secured, 
Repays their generous cares. 

Here Freedom's sacred altars rose, 

Reared by the Pilgrim sires ; 
We '11 guard them still from threatening foes, 

And light anew their fires. 
1 For the celebration 22 December, 1834. 



The Men of Plymouth. 149 

Great God ! thine all-pervading sway, 

Each passing age controls. 
Oh, may thy grace illume our day, 

And ever cheer our souls ! 

— William S. Russell. 



THE MEN OF PLYMOUTH. i 

rp HESE are the iron men that broke 
-^- Ground, where the Indian's war-fire curled ; 
These spurned the princely, priestly yoke, 

These are the fathers of a world. 
O men of God's own image, say ! 
Can glorious men thus pass away ? 

No, never ! Send expansive sight ! 

From Labrador to Carib's Sea — 
That vision, so sublime and bright, 

Of regions teeming with the free, 
Shows but the influence of these men 
Who sought the sands of Plymouth then. 

1 An extract from a loader poem. 1S36. 



150 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

No, never ! Each traditional spot 

Tells where they wept, or sank to rest ; 

Yet were such silent, or forgot 

The place their Pilgrim footsteps pressed, 

Their names should live, nor Time would mock 
The record of the Plymouth Rock. 

— William B. Tappan. 



FOR FOREFATHERS' DAY. 

Tune : Old Hundred. 

f~\ God ! beneath thy guiding hand, 
^^ Our exiled fathers crossed the sea ; 
And when they trod the wintry strand, 

With prayer and psalm they worshiped thee. 

Thou heard'st, well pleased, the song, the prayer, 
Thy blessing came ; and still its power 

Shall onward to all ages bear 
The memory of that holy hour. 



Ode. 151 

What change ! Through pathless wilds no more 
The fierce and naked savage roams ; 

Sweet praise, along the cultured shore, 
Breaks from ten thousand happy homes. 

Lands, freedom, truth, and faith in God 
Came with those exiles o'er the waves ; 

And where their Pilgrim feet have trod, 
The God the}' trusted guards their graves. 

And here thy name, O God of love ! 

Their children's children shall adore, 
Till these eternal hills remove, 

And spring adorns the earth no more. 

— Leonard Bacon. 



ODE. 



1\JEW ENGLAND ! receive the heart's trib- 
-^-^ ute that comes 
* From thine own Pilgrim sons far away. 
More fondly than ever our thoughts turn to thee, 

Upon this thine old festival day. 
We would rescue with social observance and 
song, 



152 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Awhile from oblivion's grave, 
The loved scenes of our youth, and those bless- 
ings recall 
Which our country and forefathers s;ave. 



Can distance efface, or can time ever dim 

Remembrances crowding like these? 
They have grown with our growth, and have 
ministered strength, 

As the roots send up life to the trees. 
Then be honored the day when the Mayflower 
came, 

And honored the charge that she bore, 
The stern, the religious, the glorious men, 

Whom she set on our rough native shore. 

New England, advance in thine onward career, 

With thine inborn, all-conquering will : 
Still triumph o'er nature's unkindiiest form 

By thine energy, patience, and skill. 
Thou shalt grow to thy height as thou ever hast 
grown, 

O'er the storms of ephemeral strife, 
And thy spirit, undying, shall cease not to be 

The deej} germ of a continent's life. 

— Samuel Oilman. 



Burial Hill. 153 



BURIAL HILL. 1 



rpHEY in storms of dark December, 
-^- Scions of a martyr stock, 
Praised the Lord for all his mercies, 
Kneeling there upon the rock. 

Praised him while the blast was roaring, 
While the surges smote the strand ; 

Praised him while their hearts were yearning 
With their love for fatherland. 

In the wilds of death they wrestled, 
Seeking what by faith they saw ; 
c ' Little matter what they died on — 
Beds of down, or locks of straw." 

Little recked they pain or peril, 

Ocean wave or scaffold block, 
They who bore the name of Pilgrim, 

They who built upon the rock. 

For afar they caught a vision — 

Morning merging into noon ; 
Snow-wreaths melting into blossoms, 

Dark December changed to June. 

John Milton Holmes. 

1 From a longer poem. 1865. 



154 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 1 

TN the hour of twilight shadows, 

"*- The Puritan looked out ; 

He thought of the " bloody savages 5 



That lurked all round about 



Of Wituwamut's pictured knife, 
And Pecksvot's whooping shout ; 

For the baby's flesh was tender, 

Though his father's arms were stout. 

His home was a freezing cabin, 

Too bare for the hungry rat ; 
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass, 

And bald enough of that. 
The hole that served for casement 

Was glazed with an ancient hat ; 
And the ice was gently thawing 

From the log whereon he sat. 

Along the dreary landscape, 

His eyes went to and fro ; 
The trees all clad in icicles, 

The streams that did not flow. 

1 For the Plymouth celebration, 22 December, 1846. 



The Pilgrim's Vision. 155 

A sudden thought flashed o'er him — 

A dream of long ago — 
He smote his leathern jerkin, 

And murmured, " Even so ! " 

" Come hither, God-be-glorified, 

And sit upon my knee ; 
Behold the dream unfolding, 

Whereof I spake to thee 
By the winter's hearth, in Leyden, 

And on the stormy sea ; 
True is the dream's beginning, 

So may its ending be ! 

"I saw in the naked forest, 

Our scattered remnant cast ; 
A screen of shivering branches 
Between them and the blast ; 
The snow was falling round them, 
The dying fell as fast ; 
I looked to see them perish, 

When, lo ! the vision passed. 

u Again mine eyes were opened, 
The feeble had waxed strong ; 
The babes had grown to sturdy men, 
The remnant was a throng. 



156 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

By shadowed lake and winding stream, 

And all the shores along, 
The howling demons quaked to hear 

The Christian's godly song. 

"They slept, the village fathers, 

By river, lake, and shore ; 
When, far adown the steep of time, 

The vision rose once more. 
I saw, along the winter snow, 

A spectral column pour ; 
And, high above their broken ranks, 

A tattered flag they bore. 

" Their leader rode before them, 

Of bearing calm and high ; 
The light of heaven's own kindling 

Throned in his awful eye. 
These were a nation's champions, 

Her dread appeal to try ; 
God for the right ! I faltered, 

And lo ! the train passed by. 

"Once more, the strife was ended, 
The solemn issue tried ; 
The Lord of hosts, his mighty arm 
Had helped our Israel's side. 



The Pilgrim's Vision. 157 

Gray stone and grassy hillock 

Told where the martyrs died ; 
And peace was in the borders 

Of Victory's chosen bride. 

" A crash, as when some swollen cloud 

Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! 
With side to side, and spar to spar, 

Whose smoking decks are these ? 
I know St. George's blood-red cross, 

Thou Mistress of the seas, 
Bat who is she whose streaming bars 

Roll out before the breeze ? 

u Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, 

Whose thunders try to quell 
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips 

That pealed the Armada's knell ! 
The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars 

Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, 
And wavering from its haughty peak, 

The cross of England fell ! 

Ci Oh, trembling Faith! though dark the morn, 
A heavenly torch is thine ; 
While feebler races melt away 
And paler orbs decline, 



158 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Shall still the fiery pillar's ray 

Along thy pathway shine, 
To light the chosen tribe that sought 

This Western Palestine. 

"I see the living tide roll on, 

It crowns with flaming towers 
The icy cape of Labrador, 

The Spaniard's ' land of flowers.' 
It streams beyond the splintered ridge 

That parts the Northern shores, 
From Eastern rock to sunset wave 

The continent is ours ! " 

He ceased, the grim old Puritan, 

Then softly bent to cheer 
The Pilgrim child whose wasting face 

Was meekly turned to hear ; 
And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, 

To brush the manly tear 
From cheeks that never changed in woe, 

And never blanched in fear. 

The weary Pilgrim slumbers, 

His resting-place unknown ; 
His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, 

The dust was o'er him strewn. 



The Pilgrim's Vision. 159 

The drifting soil, the moldering leaf, 

Along the sod were blown, 
His mound has melted into earth, 

His memory lives alone. 

So let it live unfading, 

The memory of the dead, 
Long as the pale anemone 

Springs where their tears were shed, 
Or raining in the summer's wind, 

In flakes of burning red, 
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves 

The turf where once they bled ! 

Yea, wiien the frowning bulwarks 

That guard this holy strand 
Have sunk beneath the trampling surge 

In beds of sparkling sand, 
While in the waste of ocean 

One hoarv rock shall stand, 

i 

Be this its latest legend : 

Here was the Pilgrim's land. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



160 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



HYMN FOE 22d DECEMBER. 

Tune : Lyons. 

A ROCK in the wilderness welcomed our 
-*--*- sires, 

From bondage far over the dark rolling sea ; 
On that holy altar they kindled the fires, 

Jehovah, which glow in our bosoms for thee ! 

Thy blessings descended in sunshine and shower, 
Or rose from the soil that was sown by thy 
hand ; 

The mountain and valley rejoiced in thy power, 
And heaven encircled and smiled on the land. 

The Pilgrims of old an example have given 
Of mild resignation, devotion, and love, 

Which beams like the star in the blue vault of 
heaven, 
A beacon-light hung in the mansions above. 

In church and cathedral we kneel in our prayer, 
Their temple and chapel were valley and hill ; 

But God is the same in the aisle or the air, 
And he is the Rock that we lean upon still. 

— Author Unknown. 



Burial Hill. 161 



BURIAL HILL. 1 



A H ! then all tenderly we thought, 
U-\- w e thought with pride and wonder, 
How — Freedom's price divinely taught — 

They stood unflinching yonder ; 

Though wintry dullness reigned around, 
And wintry winds were howling, 

Though only savage man was found, 
And savage beasts were prowling. 

Anew we felt their hopes and fears, 
When want and sickness wasted ; 

As through the lingering weary years, 
Of sorrow's cup they tasted. 

Grand souls ! that with heroic will 
The waves of trouble breasted ; 

Not e'en did women falter, till 
Beneath that turf they rested. 

For God, for truth, for man, they bore 
Loss, exile, grief, and danger ; 

As Christ, the Lord they loved, of yore 
Accepted earth's low manger. 

1 A portion of a longer poem. 1865. 



162 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

And there above their sacred dust 
Whose names shall never perish, 

We vowed their faith, a holy trust 
For all mankind, to cherish. 

God. who heard'st our prayer and song 
'Neath heaven's high dome ascending, 

Bid us in thine own might be strong, 
For that pure faith contending. 



Oh, wake, ye sons of Pilgrim sires ! 

Go. live in power and beauty 
The life sublime their faith inspires ; 

Its watchword — God and duty ! 

— Say Palmer. 



THE MAYFLOWER. 

O AD Mayflower ! watched by winter stars 
^ And nursed by winter gales, 
With petals of the sleeted spars, 
And leaves of frozen sails ! 



The Mayflower. 163 

What had she in those dreary hours, 

Within her ice-rimmed bay, 
In common with the wildwood flowers, 

The first sweet smiles of May? 

Yet " God be praised ! " the Pilgrim said, 

Who saw the blossoms peer 
Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, 

" Behold our Mayflower here ! " 

" God wills it, here our rest shall be, 
Our years of wandering o'er, 
For us the Mayflower of the sea 
Shall spread her sails no more." 

O sacred flowers of faith and hope, 

As sweetly now as then 
Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, 

In many a pine-dark glen. 

Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, 

Unchanged, your leaves unfold 
Like love behind the manly strength 

Of the brave hearts of old. 

So live the fathers in their sons, 

Their sturdy faith be ours, 
And ours the love that overruns 

Its rocky strength with flowers. 



164 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

The Pilgrims' wild and wintry day 

Its shadow round us draws ; 
The Mayflower of his stormy bay, 

Our Freedom's struggling cause. 

But warmer suns erelong shall bring 

To life the frozen sod ; 
And, through dead leaves of hope, shall 
spring 
Afresh the flowers of God ! 

— John G. Wliittier. 



FAST DAY SPORT. 

(A.D. 1648.) 

GHAME, shame upon ye, godless lads, 
^ To take your matchlocks down, 
And to the forest hie for game, 

When all the folk in town 
Were gathered in the meeting-house, 

In Sabbath garb arrayed, 
To fast and pray this solemn day, 

As Governor Winthrop bade ! 



Fast Day Sport. 165 

Ye think, perchance, I failed to mark 

Some empty places there ; 
Nay, nay, I do my duty, lads, 

Though ye may mock and stare. 
I ween, despite your many smirks, 

When all is said and done, 
Ye '11 think the hare ye dangle there 

Was hardly worth the fun. 

I've copied fair your names, young sirs, 

Trespass, — one shilling nine, — 
And governor's grandsons though ye be, 

I wot ye '11 pay the fine ; 
It should be doubled for the sin 

Of such example set ; 
I 'm sorely sad a Boston lad 

So strangely could forget. 

Ye did not? ha ! the bold offence 

Was a deliberate one ? 
Ye meant to scout the Fast day, when 

Ye went with dog and gun ? 
Out on such worldly lawlessness ! 

Ye well deserve to be 
Left in the lurch with king and church 

In Suffolk by the sea ! 



166 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

It ought to make the crimson shame 

Your braggart faces flood, 
When ye remember that your veins 

Are warm with AVinthrop blood ! 
Now had ye been Sir Harry's chicks, 

To do and dare with such 
Pert looks as send my hair on end, 

I had not cared so much. 

But Governor Winthrop's grandsons ! heigh ! 

How godless folk will prate ! 
He can not make his household keep 

The Fast day of the state ! 
Nay, do I hear aright? ye say 

He gave ye leave to go 
To-day and track (alack ! alack !) 

The rabbits through the snow ? 

Ye look so roguish, scarce I think 

Ye mean the word ye spake ; 
But since ye 've dared with bold affront 

The righteous law to break, 
Though evei* the governor's self forgot 

His bounden duty, mine 
Is clear ; ye '11 pay this very day 

Each farthing of your fine. 

— Margaret J, Preston. 



The Puritan Maiden's May-day, 167 



THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY-DAY. 

(A.D. 1686.) 

A H, well-a-day ! the grandams say 
■^ . That they had merry times 
When they were young, and gayly rung 

The May-day morning chimes. 

Before the dark was gone, the lark 

Had left her grassy nest, 
And, soaring high, set all the sky 

Athrob from East to West ! 

The hawthorn bloom with rich perfume 

Was whitening English lanes, 
The dewy air was every-where 

Alive with May-day strains ; 

And laughing girls with tangled curls, 
And eyes that gleamed and glanced, 

And ruddy boys with mirth and noise 
Around the May-pole danced. 

Ah me ! the sight of such delight, 

The joy, the whirl, the din, 
Such merriment, such glad content — 

How could it be a sin ? 



168 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

When children crowned the May-pole round 

With daisies from the sod, 
What was it, pray, but their child's way 

Of giving thanks to God ? 

The wild bee sups from buttercups 

The honey at the brim ; 
May I not take their buds and make 

A posy up for him ? 

If, as I pass knee-deep through grass 
This May-day cool and bright, 

And see away on Boston Bay 
The lines of shimmering light, 

I gather there great bunches fair 

Of mayflower as I roam, 
And with them round my forehead crowned, 

Go ladened with them home ; 

And then, if Bess and I should dress 

A May-pole with our wreath, 
And just for play, this holiday, 

Should dare to dance beneath, 

My father's brow would frown enow : 
" Child ! why hast thou a mind 

For popish clays and Romish ways, 
And lusts we 've left behind? " 



Forefathers' Day. 169 

Our grandam says that her May-days, 
With mirth and song and flowers, 

And lilt of rhymes and village chimes, 
Were happier far than ours. 

If, as I ween, upon the green 

She danced with merry din, 

Yet lived to be the saint I see, 

How can I count it sin ? 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



FOREFATHERS' DAY. 1 

rpHE wandering sun, ranging through south - 
-*- ern skies, 

Has touched his wintry solstice. O'er the north 
Fall the chill shadows, and the sick]y days, 
Tale -faced and wan, are quickly lost in night. 
From the cold heavens, through lonely midnight 

hours, 
The glittering stars look down on fields of ice, 
On plains and mountains wrapped in robes of 

snow. 

1 Read at Boston Congregational Club Festival, December, 

18S0. 



170 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Along the headlands of our rock-bound coast 
Tlie wild waves roll, and the hoarse murmurs 

break, 
Telling the lonely dwellers by the sea 
Of far-off winds and storms and tossing barks. 
Now is the midnight of our northern year. 
Nature has laid aside her flowery robes, 
And clothed herself in soberest attire. 
All sights and sounds, in earth and air and 

heaven, 
Recall those stern historic days of old 
When our brave Pilgrim sires, battling with 

waves, 
Struggling with icy winds and adverse fate, 
Made their rude entry on these western shores. 
Now, in our well-filled homes, by genial fires, 
We read the tale, — tell o'er the honored names, 
Those grand and simple names that can not die, 
And proudly trace our ancient lineage. 

We read the critics too, those sharp-eye;l men, 
Who search all precious ointments through and 

through, 
Not for the ointment's sake, to prove its worth, 
But, if so be, to find out and report 
Some smallest fly that may have lodged therein. 



Forefathers' Day. 171 

Our Pilgrim critics are an ancient brood, 
Hovering about the rock from age to age, 
With nods portentous and with croaking voice. 
'T is well to read these critics, well to know 
Their inmost thought, and follow where they 

lead. 
Guided by them and walking in their light, 
Let us now re-construct our Pilgrim sires, 
And show what men our fathers should have 

been. 

The Pilgrim Father should have been a man 
Who had no private prejudice to smother, 

Built on a large, expansive, liberal plan, 

To whom one thing were good as any other ; 

Who, had he lived, back when the race began, 
Would not have minded when Cain killed his 
brother ; 

A man so very round and full and pious 

As to be free from every shade of bias. 

He should have patronized with equal zeal 
Every adventurous and random rover ; 

Have freely shared his dear-bought common weal 
With every renegade that might come over ; 



172 Songs of the Pilgrims, 

Ready to grant each wanderer's appeal, 

Whether he came from Holland, Dublin. 
Dover ; 
A man who held it strict impartiality 
Xot to distinguish virtue from rascality. 

Once here, our Pilgrim's first and foremost thought 
Ought to have been to please his Indian neigh- 
bor ; 

What though the cunning, lazy savage sought 
To gain his living without care or labor ; 

Still, our good Pilgrim ought not to have 
brought 
To this new world his musket and his saber ; 

It surely was not generous and good 

To frighten these poor children of the wood. 

They were the dwellers on this western soil 
Centuries before the Mayflower went a-cruis- 
ing; 

If they preferred to live exempt from toil, 

AVho had the right to hinder them from choos- 
ing? 

Or, if they forced their wives to slave and moil, 
Beating or killing any one refusing, 

The Pilgrim Father was a stranger here, 

What arrogance in him to interfere ! 



Forefathers' Day. 173 

He should have landed on this western shore 
With less of Bible, and with more of science ; 

Bible is good, but had he pondered o'er 

What science taught, and made that his reli- 
ance, 

He could have reared, from his exhaustless store, 
An empire grand, to bid the world defiance ; 

Great pity that with chances so prodigious 

He should have been a trifle too religious. 

Given, just scientific lore enough 

Simply to analyze that famous bowlder 

Called Plymouth Rock, where " breaking waves 
dashed " — rough — 
That rock which thrills with awe each new 
beholder ; 

Given, the mica, quartz, and other stuff 
Employed and used by the primeval molder 

To forge, by aid of underground caloric, 

That marvelous rock now grown to be historic ; 

Given, the power to tell, like modern sages, 
Somewhere within five hundred thousand 
years 

How old that bowlder is, and what the stages 
By which it journeyed to these Plymouth piers, 



174 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

To trace its starting-point in by-gone ages. 

And show how easy every thing appears, — 
Items like these are solid information. 
Well fitted to build up a mighty nation. 

Bat we go prating on about this rock. 
Its mental, moral, and religious uses : 

We treat it like some huge aesthetic block, 

"Whose very name to boundless good conduces : 

We feel a kind of sentimental shock 
When any scoffer offers his abuses : 

From sixteen hundred twenty to this day. 

The rock has served in this peculiar way. 

Here endeth the first lesson. Turn the page 
And we may find all freshly spread before us 

The counter-charges of a later age. 

Which may. by contrast, comfort and restore us; 

Critics in war with critics will engage 
Long as the centuries go rolling o'er us : 

If we could tarry till their strife were ended. 

Our Pilgrim sires would surely be defended. 

These counter-charges which we have in hand 
Seem, in their contrasts, just a little funny. 

The Pilgrims, now. are not a pious band : 

Thev came, it seems, intent on making monev. 



Forefathers' Day. 175 

They fancied that this rough New England land 
Might prove to them a land of milk and 
honey ; 
And so they ventured o'er a stormy ocean 
To pay at Mammon's shrine their pure devotion. 

They were a wandering clan that could not rest 
Or live contented in their own condition ; 

And when they left their ancient English nest, 
They only showed their restless disposition ; 

Ready to journey east or journey west 
Upon their money-making expedition, 

They tried old Holland, and, ignobly failing, 

Away to Plymouth Rock they went a-sailing. 

But know ye well, O critics, ye spend your 

strength for nought ; 
All harmless fall the weapons your cunning 

hands have wrought ; 
The men ye seek to injure have reached a height 

sublime, 
Whereon they sit secure against the accidents 

of time : 
The rolling years have tried them, the centuries 

have passed, 
And clothed them with a glory that shall forever 

last. 



176 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

The wandering birds that fly afar are wise to 

know their hour ; 
Seeking the fields of upper air and thwarting 

human power, 
They voyage on unguided by compass or by 

chart 
Along these clear and azure heights, safe from 

the hunter's dart ; 
A law they know not moves them straight to 

their distant nest, 
Unerringly they journey and find their promised 

rest. 

So the old patriarchs journeyed, moved by the 

call of God, 
Earth's wanderers, unknowing the pathway 

which they trod : 
And so the Pilgrims journeyed, leaving their 

native land, 
Going they knew not whither by some divine 

command ; 
With faith and loving patience they trod their 

weary way, 
And so their names stand glorified before our 

eyes to-day. 



The Pilgrims. 177 

The best and purest wisdom is wisdom of the 

heart 
Untouched by human cunning, unstained by 

earthly art ; 
He that by craft will save his life shall lose it 

at the end ; 
He that will lose his life shall find an everlasting 

friend : 
God has his chosen children, his favorites on 

the earth, 
Raised oat of toil and sorrow by an immortal 

birth. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



THE PILGRIMS. 

/~\NCE a handful, brave and daring 
^-^ As young eagles from their nest, 
Sought for human right and freedom 
Over ocean's foaming crest. 

Giving friendship, love, and kindred. 
All the sacred worth of tears, 

Giving God their faith as treasure, 
Stored for all the coming years. 



178 So7igs of the Pilgrims. 

iC God and Freedom," was the watchword 
Of that noble Pilgrim band, 
And God led them to that freedom 
By his own almighty hand. 

Rocked by cold winds, lashed by billows, 
Plunging where the white waves seethe, 

He who rules the tempest guides them, 
His strong arm is underneath. 

O'er that ship an angel hovered 

As the stormy voyage ran ; 
Caught the tears of suffering woman, 

Heard the sighs of suffering man. 

Round that ship a glory lingers, 
Sailing on from year to year ; 

Round its masts bright rainbows circle, 
Caught from every sacred tear. 

Not the Rock alone is holy, 

Where their chrismal prayer was made, 
For the hand of God, in blessing, 

Over all the land was laid. 

Though the Pilgrim Fathers slumber, 
Still their spirits are not dead ; 

Far beyond the inland rivers 

Now their children's children tread. 



Memory of our Fathers. 179 

Now a nation calls them blessed, 
For the freedom which they bought, 

And the world has been made better 
For their lesson, nobly taught. 

Hope, O Christian, through all trials ; 

Through life's tempests on the way ; 
Hearts will bless you on the morrow, 

For your triumphs yesterday. 

Like the sword of Standish, bearing 
Only God's grand message, " Peace," 

Spreading love among the nations 
Until wars and tumults cease. 

— Sylvia Broivn. 



MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS. 

TN pleasant lands have fallen the lines 
-*- That bound our goodly heritage, 
And safe beneath our sheltering vines 
Our youth is blest, and soothed our age. 

What thanks, O God, to thee are due, 
That thou didst plant our fathers here ; 

And watch and guard them as they grew, 
A vineyard to the Planter dear. 



180 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

The toils they bore our ease have wrought ; 

They sowed in tears — in joy we reap ; 
The birthright they so clearly bought 

We '11 guard, till we with them shall sleep. 

Thy kindness to our fathers shown 
In weal and woe through all the past, 

Their grateful sons, O God, shall own, 
While here their name and race shall last. 

—Flint. 



THE MAYFLOWER ON NEW ENG- 
LAND'S COAST. 

r I TEE Mayflower on New England's coast has 

-^- furled her tattered sail, 

And through her chafed and moaning shrouds 
December's breezes wail ; 

Yet on their icy deck behold a meek but daunt- 
less band, 

Who, for the right to worship God, have left 
their native land ; 

And to this dreary wilderness this glorious boon 
they bring — 

A church without a bishop, and a state ivithout a 
king I 



The Mayflower on New England's Coast. 181 

Those daring men, those gentle wives, say, 

wherefore do they come ? 
Why rend they all the tender ties of kindred 

and of home? 
'T is heaven assigns their noble work, man's 

spirit to unbind : 
They come not for themselves alone, they come 

for all mankind ; 
And to the empire of the West this glorious 

boon they bring — 
A church without a bishop , and a state without a 

king I 

Then prince and prelate, hope no more to bend 
them to your sway ; 

Devotion's fire inflames their breasts while free- 
dom points their way ; 

And in their brave heart's estimate, 't were bet- 
ter not to be 

Than quail beneath a despot where the soul 
can not be free ; 

And therefore o'er a wintry wave those exiles 
come to bring 

A church without a bishop, and a state without a 
king ! 



182 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

And still their spirit, in their sons, with freedom 

walks abroad ; 
The Bible is our only creed, our only sovereign, 

God! 
The hand is raised, the word is spoke, the joyful 

pledge is given, 
And boldly on our banner floats, in the free air 

of heaven, 
That motto of our sainted sires, and loud we '11 

make it ring : 
A church without a bishop, and a state ivithout a 

king I 

— Charles Hall. 



MEMORIAL HYMN. 1 

TT^IRM as the rock beneath their feet, 
~^- The saintly Pilgrims stood ; 
On thee, O God, their trust was stayed, 
Thy voice their steadfast souls obeyed, 
And thou didst answer when they prayed 

Beside the wintry flood ; 
Didst give them strength in faith sublime 
To work the noblest work of time ! 

1 Written for, and sting at, the memorial celebration in Bos- 
ton, 21 December, 1870. 



Memorial Hymn. 183 

To-day by centuries we count 

The slowly measured years ; 
And lo ! wide o'er a smiling land 
Fair homes and sacred temples stand ; 
Where frowned rude wastes and forests grand, 

A peopled realm appears ; 
O'er hills and plains, from sea to sea, 
Sweep thronging millions of the free ! 

Tears for the days of deadly strife ; 

Tears for the young and brave, 
Who, fired by freedom's battle-cry, 
Flung broad her banner to the sky, 
Content on gory fields to lie, 

That they her home might save ; 
That chains from every hand might fall, 
And love's wide arms encircle all ! 

As thou didst hear, O faithful God, 

The prayer our fathers said, 
So hear us while, like them, to thee 
We for our children bend the knee ; 
Let them to distant ages be 

As if the Pilgrims, dead, 
In them did wake and live again ; 
Their shields the shields of mighty men ! 



184 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

O Christ ! be thine the Pilgrims' land ! 

Reign thou from shore to shore ; 
Here let thy Church, beneath thy sway, 
Grow fairer till her bridal clay, 
When thou shalt come in glad array — 

Her Lord — as mountains o'er, 
In splendor robed, the morning sun 
Ascends his flaming course to run ! 

Praise God ! praise him who changeth not ! 

Our fathers' God and ours ; 
To thee our thankful praise we bring, 
Ancient of days ! Our glorious king ! 
Let earth and heaven together sing 

A^ith all their raptured powers, 
Till listening stars shall catch the strain, 
And shout the chorus back again ! 

— Ray Palmer. 



FOREFATHERS' DAY. 1 

A LMIGHTY God ! to thee we raise 
-*--*- Our hymn of thankfulness and praise, 
Within the hollow of whose hand 
The Pilgrim sought his promised land ! 

1 For the celebration of 1882. 



Forefathers' Day. 185 

Not the rich pastures of the vine, 
Flowing with honey, milk, and wine, 
But bleak shores sought by storm and sea, 
Their rude, sole welcome — Thou art free! 

With corn he wooed the sullen soil, 
But more with learning, home, and toil ; 
Till now no vineyard of the sun 
Blooms like the wilderness he won. 

Inspired by faith, in purpose great, 
He steadfast set his Church and State, 
Made them to stand 'gainst flood and shock, 
For both he built upon the rock. 

One taught — to God and conscience true — 
More light to seek the right to do ; 
The other broadened to the span 
Of man's equality with man. 

Children of fathers such as he, 

Be ours the true nobility ! 

Lords of the realm, they served its growth ; 

To serve be still the freeman's oath. 

— John D. Long. 



186 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



HYMN FOR 21 DECEMBER, 1870. 

n REAT God of all! in humble, grateful 
^-^ prayer 

We come before thee now on bended knee, 
And thank thee that thou didst our fathers spare 

From the wild dangers of a wintry sea. 

We thank thee that, when dangers greater far 
Encompassed them, that brave hearts might 
appall, 
Thou didst support them, and didst let the star 
Of hope shine on their hearts and strengthen 
all. 

And we, their children, on this joyous clay, 
No longer peril-driven or tempest-tossed, 

Approach thy throne in thankfulness, and pray 
Our fathers' bright examples be not lost. 

May we, like them, have strength and courage 
given, 
Bear bravely up e'en though we feel the rod ; 
Know that a life wed spent leads on to heaven, 
And duties' paths are but the paths to God. 

— Nathaniel Spooner. 



Hymn. 187 

HYMN. 1 

npO Thee, God ! whose guiding hand 
-*- Our fathers led across the sea, 
And brought them to this barren shore, 
Where they might freely worship thee ; 

To thee, O God ! whose arm sustained 
Their footsteps in this desert land, 

Where sickness lurked and death assailed, 
And foes beset on every hand ; 

To thee, O God ! we lift our eyes ; 

To thee our grateful voices raise, 
And, kneeling at thy gracious throne, 

Devoutly join in hymns of praise. 

Our fathers' God ! incline thine ear, 
And listen to our heartfelt prayer ; 

Surround us with thy heavenly grace, 
And guard us with thy constant care. 

Our fathers' God ! in thee we '11 trust ; 

Sheltered by thee from every harm, 
We '11 follow where thy hand shall guide, 

And lean on thy sustaining arm. 

— William T. Davis. 

1 Sung at Plymouth at the 250th anniversary, 21 December, 
1870. 



188 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



DEDICATION OF HITCHCOCK LIBRARY. 

(December 21, 1874.) 
I. 

/^ OD of oar Pilgrim sires, to thee 
^^ All might and majesty belong ; 
Before thy face we bow the knee, 
And lift aloud our grateful song. 

By thy strong arm the Pilgrim band 
AVere kept in all their stormy way 

Until they trod this goodly land 
And gave to us this happy day. 

We bring our gift before thy throne, 

This labor which our hands have wrought, 

And consecrate to thee alone 

This treasure-house of sacred thought. 

Choicer than gold though thrice refined, 
Or all the gems that ocean rolls, 

Are these fair riches of the mind, 
This garnered wealth of holv souls. 

God of our sires, still let that grace, 

That strength, which made the fathers bold 

Descend upon the Pilgrim race, 
As coming years shall be unrolled. 



Dedication of Hitchcock Library. 189 



ii. 

We sing our gladsome hymn of praise, 

And bless our fathers' God, 
While we recount the former days, 

And trace the pathway trod. 

How many hearts this hope has filled, 

The living and the dead ! 
How many hands have wrought to build 

This temple where we tread ! 

But one our warmest praise demands, 

His gift we here recall, 
By whom this finished structure stands, 

Whose name adorns our hall. 

He gave, and passed from earth away 

To his unseen employ 
E'er he could see this crowning day, 

Or share our festive joy. 

But here, embalmed, his gift shall last, 

His substance shall endure ; 
And as the rolling years go past, 

His heritage is sure. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



190 Songs of the Pilgrims. 



THE BOYS' REDOUBT. 

(October, 1775.) 

T~N continental buff-and-blue, 
-^ AVith lappets richly laced, 
Beneath the shade the elm-trees made, 
A martial figure paced. 

Along the sluggish Charles's banks 

He bent at length his way, 
Just as the gun, at set of sun, 

Went booming o'er the bay. 

His soul was racked with doubt and strife, 
Despondence gloomed his eye ; 

He needs must bear his weight of care 
Out to the open sky. 

The breeze that flapped his soldier's cloak. 

The woods so broad and dim, 
The tides whose sway no bonds could stay, 

All seemed so free to him ! 

Yet the young nation that had wrung, 

Beyond the angry seas, 
From savage grace a refuge-place 

To pray as they might please, 



The Boys' Redoubt. 191 

Must it be hounded from its haunts ? 

Be fettered at the stake ? 
Be forced again to wear the chain 

It risked its all to break ? 

His step grew heavier with the thought, 

His lips less firm were set ; 
It could not be that such as he 

Must yield ! and yet — and yet — 

How could they even hope to win 
A single fight in lack 

Of every thing, while England's king- 
Had Europe at his back? 

Thus musing sad beside the Charles, 

He saw the Cambridge boys, 
An eager band, pile up the sand 

With roar of riot noise. 

ct Ha ! lads, what do you here?" he said, 

Arrested by their shout. 
" What do we here? why, give us cheer ; 

We 're building a redoubt ! 

" Who knows how soon Lord Howe may come, 

And all his lion cubs, 
With growls and snarls, straight up the Charles, 

In his old British tubs ? 



192 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

" And creeping from them in the dark, 
As quiet as a mouse, 
Now what if they should snatch away, 
Right out of Vassal House 

t; Our new-made chief, before a man 
Has leave to fire a gun ? 
That ends it ! for there '11 be no war 
Without a Washington ! 

" Our fathers' hands are filled with work ; 
Besides, they 're grieving still 
For Warren and the gallant band 
That fell at Bunker Hill. 

"So we will help them as we can ; 
You wear the burT-and-blue ; 
Yet we aver that we 're ready, sir. 
To fight as well as you. 

" May be you 're on the general's staff ; 
Then say we Cambridge boys 
Will yell and shout from our redoubt 
With such a savage noise 

tc That all the vessels in the bay 
Will hear the wild uproar 
And swear again that Prescott's men 
Are lining all the shore ! " 



Forefathers' Day. 193 

44 Brave lads ! " the soldier said, and raised 

The cap that hid his brow ; 
44 Some day, some day, I '11 surely pay 

The debt I owe you now ! 

"Your high, heroic, mettled hearts, 
Your faith that wavers not, 
To me are more than cannon's store, 
Or tons of shell and shot. 

14 What people ever fails to gain 
The patriot's dearest prize, 
When 4 die or win ' is blazing in 
The very children's eyes ? 

Cw No need to bear the general word 
Of tasks so rich in cheer ; 
He makes his due salute to you — 
You see the General here 1 " 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



FOREFATHERS' DAY. 

/~\N this low rock beside the bay, 
^^ With lonely woods and waters round, 
The steps once heard at break of day 
Fill every village with their sound. 



194 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Again we tell how great the deed 

Of those who here their journey stayed, 

And, building cabins for their need, 
Foundations of an empire laid. 

We see again, to these wild shores, 
Their vessel sail the path of light, 

And hail the morning's golden floors 
Above the winter and the night. 

In God their dwelling-place they made ; 

They toiled supremely him to please ; 
So, ever in their toil they prayed, 

And built this nation on their knees. 

— Albert Bryant. 



THE SPIRIT OF FOREFATHERS' DAY. 

FAITH ROBINSON. 

fTTHEY called her Faith, this winsome baby 
J- girl, 

With soft blue eyes and cheek of rose and pearl, 
Born in old Holland, where the Pilgrims stayed 
Until the Mayflower frail her anchor weighed 
For the strange country far across the sea, 
Where faith in God taught them their home 
should be. 



The Spirit of Forefathers' Day. 105 

" Faith is a comfort, both in word and deed, 
A gift from heaven ; " in this they all agreed. 
" Whether on sea or land, she has the grace 
Of golden sunshine in a gloomy place." 

The years flew by, and Faith grew brave and tall, 
A comfort still was this sweet maid to all. 
Whate'er perplexed them she was wont to say : 
" The Bible tells us in such times to pray." 

One year no rain fell. All the fields were dry. 
" The corn and grass and sheep will surely die, 
And when the winter comes, ah, sorry day ! " 
" Why, grandsire dear, the people all must pray. 

" I '11 call them now, from house to house I '11 go ; 
They '11 come, I'm sure, if we but let them know 
At four o'clock, on Deacon Fuller's hill, 
We '11 pray for rain enough to turn the mill ; 
For some there are now almost out of bread." 
These were the words the little maiden said. 

The people came ; the sky was hot and clear, 
No breath of rain nor sign of cloud was near ; 
They climbed the hill with faces worn and sad ; 
Faith followed singing like a birdling glad. 
To her granddame and mother straight she came. 



196 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

U I went," said she, 44 to fetch these for the 

rain," — 
She 'd brought a cloak, and blankets two had 

she, — 
44 These are for you, the cloak will cover me." 

44 Faith is a comfort ! " all the women said. 
"Such faith!" the elder sighed and bowed his 

head. 
The people lingered long upon their knees 
With prayers and sobs. A shiver stirred the trees, 
The air grew cool, the sun was clouded in. 
44 The want of faith in us is deadly sin," 
The deacon said. 44 Let us not err again ! " 
Then patter, patter came the welcome rain. 

That was the spirit of Forefathers' Day. 

44 Give it to us," let all the children pray ; 

4 "Lord, give us faith and keep us pure and 

strong, 
Help us to serve the right, to right the wrong. 
Oh, make us worthy of those Pilgrim sires 
Who prayed for us about their first camp-fires, 
While wintry skies bent o'er them cold and gray." 
In faith they prayed — that made Forefathers' 

Day. 

— Annie A. Preston. 



Our Fathers. 197 



OUR FATHERS. 



\ ITE own that guiding hand, 
* * Which, in the years of old, 
Led to this chosen land 
Our fathers, firm and bold, 
Brought them across the stormy sea, 
To build this empire of the free. 

They came with faith in God, 

They came with faith in man ; 
On this fresh virgin sod 
To try their untried plan ; 
To give this realm of freedom birth 
And shed new light around the earth. 

Soon as our godly sires 

These new-found shores had trod, 
They lit their altar-fires 

And claimed the land for God ; 
They filled the forest shades with light, 
And turned to day the savage night. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



198 . Songs of the Pilgrims, 

FOREFATHERS' DAY, 1883. 

THE EVERLASTING REMEMBRANCE. 

"TTTHY die ye not? Ye men of God, 

* * Ye women saintly, who beside 
Husband and brother fearless trod 
Where Plymouth Rock the sea defied ! 
Where'er I turn my eyes, behold 
Change ruleth all things ; dull decay 
Treads on the heels of life ; and cold 
In the still tomb forever laid, 
The best and loveliest of to-day. 
The noblest in God's image made, 
To-morrow straight have passed away ! 
Where Art has reared her massive towers 
Storied with names renowned of yore, 
Crumbled by Time's slow-wasting powers, 
Lie heaps of moss-grown ruins hoar ; 
And Thebes and Athens all too well 
The tale of perished grandeurs tell. 
Warriors of might and monarchs proud, 
Before whom trembling nations bowed, 
Whose dust grand mausoleums keep, 
In dark oblivion silent sleep, 
Yet live ye on ; your praises found 
On reverent lips the world around. 



Forefathers' Day, 1883. 199 

So, as in thoughtful mood I stood 
Where Burial Hill o'erlooks the tide, 
Came visions of the great and good 
Who bravely lived and nobly died ; 
Who, dauntless, to this lonely strand 
God's holy ark of freedom bore ; 
Self-exiled from that motherland 
Whose shores their eyes should greet no more, 
Firm as the rock on which they trod, 
In faith sublime and purpose high, 
For unborn ages and for God, 
They dared to suffer and to die. 

Beneath thy turf, O sacred hill, 
Their canopy the changeful sky, 
They sleep while years their circuits fill, 
And the slow centuries go by ; 
Nor mind they wintry tempests more, 
Nor heed the angry ocean's roar ; 
But ever o'er that peaceful sleep 
Their faithful watch the angels keep. 

Illustrious band ! whose future then 
In God's deep counsels hidden lay, 
Ye faltered not, but followed, when 
Through deepest darkness led the way * 



200 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

A way of anguish though it seemed, 

Yet, heaven inspired, ye hoped ; and dreamed 

That on, beyond that dismal gloom, 

Should rise at last a joyous morn, 

When the waste wilderness should bloom, 

And children's children, freemen born, 

Should throng in countless millions o'er 

The vast expanse from shore to shore ; 

When, for the savage yell and knife, 

Should come just laws and cultured life ; 

And cities rise with spire and dome, 

The marts of commerce and the home 

Of men whom loftiest thoughts inspire, 

Born of religion's heavenly fire ; 

Where none would quench the sacred flame 

Of freedom, none consent to bear, 

On mind or hand enchained, the shame 

Which only the debased can wear. 

Oh ! if from these calm skies to-day, 
The mighty voice of God should say : 
u Ye sleepers, wake ! To life arise, 
Ye great in soul ! Ye nobly good ! 
Stand up as when of old ye stood, 
And with clear vision lift your eyes ! " 



Forefathers' Day, 1883. 201 

As ye again to life should start, 

The same in mind, in thought, in heart, 

As when, o'erborne with ills, ye gave 

Your wasted bodies to the grave ; 

Ah ! on those eyes at once awake 

From death's long sleep, what wonders break ! 

Behold what then ye dreamed ! Ye wept 

With sickness, care and sorrow worn, 

With hopes and fears alternate torn, 

As near yon Rock your watch ye kept. 

To-day, as here ye stand, once more 

Before you the same surf -beat shore, 

Above" you the same heavens and sun 

Which saw your glorious work begun ; 

Ye look, — O bliss without alloy, — 

Ye weep again, but now for joy ! 

The griefs that in your Pilgrim years 
Wrung from the bravest many a sigh ; 
That wet uplifted eyes with tears, 
When none could help save God on high, 
Seem troubled visions of the night 
That vanished with the morning light. 
Beyond your dreams, your hopes, your thought, 
Lo ! what God's faithful love hath wrought ! 



202 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Before your raptured eyes ye see 
A refuge for the world's opprest ; 
A noble empire strong and free, 
Where the poor exile finds his rest ; 
Land of all lands most richly blest ! 

Ye can not die ! Around your names 
The splendor of true glory flames ; 
That glory, matchless and sublime, 
Not bought with blood, not stained with crime, 
O'er the wide world its radiance throws, 
And, all undimmed by change or time, 
On through the ages brighter glows ! 
As from fresh beds of flowers at morn 
Perfumes are breathed that fill the air ; 
That on the genial breezes borne, 
Bear grateful sweetness every-where, 
So from this soil ye wet with tears, 
Where wrestled faith through lingering years, 
Forces divine have silent sprung, 
Whose influence, like sweet odors flung 
O'er distant realms, hath kindly wrought, 
Hath quickened life and hope and thought, 
Made glad humanity, and broke 
Cold tyranny's dread, hateful yoke, 



Forefathers' Day. 203 

With truths by God's own wisdom taught. 

Goodness and truth, with God allied, 
As his eternal throne abide ! 
The glory won by guilt shall fade ; 
Its proud memorials turn to dust ; 
But fresh, immortal, undecayed, 
Shall live the glory of the just ! 

— Ray Palmer. 



FOREFATHERS' DAY. 

PORTUGUESE HYMN. 

/^\H, strong is our God in the might of his 
^S sway, 

He speaks, and the seas and the tempests obey ; 
He guides the frail bark on its perilous path, 
And holds back the surges that break in their 
wrath. 

Oh, strong is our God, for he casteth down 

kings, 
But broods o'er the humble with sheltering 

wings ; 
He shames and dishonors the pride of the 

throne, 
But lifts up the lowly and makes them his own. 



204 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Oh, strong is our God, for this realm of the west 
He guarded and kept for a refuge and rest, 
He gave to our fathers these fountains and rills, 
The wealth of the valleys and strength of the 
hills. 

Oh, strong is our God, and what song shall 

unfold 
The wonders he wrought for our fathers of old ? 
Through sorrow and gladness, in sunshine and 

storm, 
Their faith still beheld his invisible form. 

Oh, strong is our God, and the nations are 

strong 
That bow in his temples with worship and song ; 
The fear of the Lord is the strength of the state, 
And blest are the men at his altars who wait. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



THE PILGRIM FOREFATHERS. 

'HVTEATH hoary moss on crumbling stones 
-^^ Their names are fading day by day ; 
The fashions of their lives and speech 
From sight and sound have passed away. 



The Pilgrim Forefathers. 205 

The shores they found so bleak, so bare, 
Shine now with riches gay and proud ; 

And we, light-hearted, dance on ground 
Where they in anguish wept and bowed. 

Unto the faith they bought so dear, 
We pay each day less reverent heed ; 

And boast, perhaps, that we outgrow 

The narrowness which marked their creed, 

A shallow boast of thankless hearts, 

In evil generation born ; 
By side of those old Pilgrim men 

The ages shall hold us in scorn. 

Find me the men on earth who care 
Enough for faith or creed to-day, 

To seek a barren wilderness 
For simple liberty to pray ; 

Men who for simple sake of God 

All titles, riches, would refuse, 
And in their stead, disgrace and shame 

And bitter poverty would choose. 

We find them not. Alas ! the age, 
In all its light, hath blinder grown ; 

In all its plenty, starves because 
It seeks to live by bread alone. 



206 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

We owe them all we have of good : 
Our sunny skies, our fertile fields ; 

Our freedom, which to all oppressed 
A continent of refuge yields. 

And what we have of ill, of shame, 
Our broken word, our greed for gold, 

Our reckless schemes and treacheries, 

In which men's souls are bought and sold, — 

All these have come because we left 
The paths that these forefathers trod ; 

The simple, single-hearted ways 

In which they feared and worshiped God. 

Despise their name and creed who will ! 

Pity their poverty who dare ! 
Their lives knew joys, their lives wore crowns 

We do not know, we can not wear. 

And if so be that it is saved, 

Our poor republic, stained and bruised, 
'Twill be because we lay again 

Their corner-stones ivhich ive refused. 

— H. H. 



December 21st, 1620-1870. 207 



DECEMBER 21st, 1620-1870. 

~T7"E children of New England, 
-*- Wherever ye may be, 
Whether ye keep the ancient homes 

Down by the ancient sea ; 
Treading the rocky pathways 

Your fathers trod before, 
Hearing the wild Atlantic break 

Along her stormy shore ; 
Or if afar ye wander 

O'er the prairies of the west, 
Or down the wide Pacific slopes, 

Your weary footsteps rest : 

Come, listen to my story, 

The grand ancestral lay, 
Which, as the world grows older, 

Grows newer every day ; 
Which touches men with pity, 

And touches men with pride, 
In the memory of those noble souls, 

For God who lived and died. 



208 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

This is no play of fancy 

To catch a listless ear ; 
No strange and shadowy legend 

For idle minds to hear ; 
Xo tale of love and sorrow 

To rob the eye of sleep. 
O'er which pale sickly maidens 

May weep and read and weep. 

'T is a tale of faith and patience, 

And a tale of cruel wrong, 
When the good to earth were trampled 

By the haughty and the strong ; 
The brave, heroic Pilgrims 

Could find no place of rest 
Save o'er the stormy ocean, 

In the forests of the west. 

Behold these storm-tost Pilgrims 

On a rough and barren shore ; 
With the sounding sea behind them, 

And the wilderness before ; 
Hungry and cold they house them 

In their dwellings rude and low, 
While the night winds howl around them 

With their drifting clouds of snow. 



December 21st, 1620-1870. 209 

In these nights of care and watching, 

Long nights unblest with sleep, 
What strange, fantastic terrors 

Over the spirits creep ! 
Out from these unknown forests 

Come stealing on the ear, 
Weird and mysterious voices, 

That chill the soul with fear. 

Oh, the terrors of that winter, 

When men sickened day by day, 
And one by one, as weeks rolled on, 

They dropped and passed away ! 
There was no harsh and murmuring voice, 

No sad, complaining cry, 
But silently they heard the call 

And laid them down to die. 

Meekly as to the slaughter 

The patient lamb is led, 
Meekly before the shearers 

As the sheep bows down her head, 
So bowed these humble Pilgrims 

Before the chastening rod, 
And opened not their mouth to doubt 

The goodness of their God. 



210 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

Strong men and gentle women, 

The maiden in her bloom, 
The little child, the gray-haired sire, 

Slept in their hill-side tomb ; 
They were buried there in darkness, 

And the living smoothed their bed, 
That the fierce savage might not tell 

The number of the dead. 

And when the genial sun came back, 

And these dark months were o'er, 
When through the budding forests 

The soft winds blew once more, 
Half of their number could not feel 

Its sweet reviving breath, — 
They slept upon the burial hill 

The icy sleep of death. 

But these days of fiery trial, 

Of scorn and hate, are o'er, 
And now these grand old Pilgrim sires 

Shall live to die no more ; 
Men kindle at their virtues, 

They tell with swelling pride 
The story of those men of old, 

For God who lived and died. 



Elder Faunce at Plymouth Bock. 211 

And as the years roll onward, 

Through the ages yet to be, 
As wider grows and wider 

This empire of the free, 
Grander shall grow the story 

Of those men, true and tried, 
Those noble and heroic souls, 

For God who lived and died. 

— Increase N. Tarbox. 



ELDER FAUNCE AT PLYMOUTH ROCK. 

A N old, old man ! 
-^-^- His hair is white as snow, 
His feeble footsteps slow, 
And the light of his eyes grown dim. 
An old, old man ! 
Yet they bow with reverence low, 
With respect they wait on him. 

They gather at his side, 
And in his way they throng : 
Greet him with love and pride 
The aged and the young. 



212 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

And the children leave their play 
As he passes on his way, 
And afar off they follow 
This old, old man. 

He has gone down to the rock, 

He is lying by the shore ; 

He hath silent sate him down ; 

And the young man, whose strong arm 

Hath shielded him from harm, 

Will not disturb the dream 

That his spirit hovers o'er ; 

And the gathered throng beside him 

Group him on the shore. 

Long he sits in silence, 

The old, old man ; 

While the waves with silvery reach 

Go curling up the beach, 

Or dash against the rocks in spray — 

The huge rocks bedded deep 

At the base of the proud steep, 

Where the green ridge of Manomet 

Grandly rises far away. 

All the air is still, 

And every distant hill 

Its summit veils in soft, misty blue ; 



Elder Faunce at Plymcuth Rock, 213 

Across the wide-spread bay, 

Five-and-twenty miles away, 

The white cliffs of Cape Cod hang in air, 

As some mysterious hand, 

Or enchanter's lifted wand, 

Had suspended them, and charmed them there ; 

And o'er all the waters wide, 

And the hills in summer pride, 

And the islands in the bay that rise, 

And over Saquish Head 

And the Gurnet's breakers dread, 

The mild, soft sunlight like a blessing lies. 

The old man's eyes grow bright 

With the light of by-gone days ; 

His voice is strong and clear, 

His form no more is bowed, 

He stands erect and proud, 

And, dashing from his eye the indignant tear, 

He turns him to the crowd that wait expectant 

near, 
And reverent on him gaze ; 
For they know that he has walked 
In all the Pilgrim ways. 



214 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

" Mark it well ! " he cries, 
"Mark it well! 

This rock on which we stand : 

For here the honored feet 

Of our fathers' exiled band 

Pressed the land ; 

And not the wide, wide world, 

Not either hemisphere, 

Has a spot in its domain 

To freedom half so clear ! " 

— Caroline Frances Orne. 



FIRST LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

T^vAYS pass, winds veer, and favoring skies 
-*^^ Change like the face of fortune ; storms 
arise ; 
Safely, but not within her port desired, 

The good ship lies. 
Where the long sandy cape 

Bends and embraces round, 
As with a lover's arm, the sheltered sea, 

A haven she hath found 
From adverse gales and boisterous billows free. 



First Landing of the Pilgrims. 215 

Now strike your sails, 
Ye toil-worn mariners, and take your rest 
Long as the tierce north-west 

In that wild fit prevails, 
Tossing the waves uptorn with frantic sway. 

Keep ye within the bay, 

Contented to delay 
Your course till the elemental madness cease, 
And heaven and ocean are again at peace. 

How gladly there, 

Sick of the uncomfortable ocean, 
The impatient passengers approach the shore ; 

Escaping from the sense of endless motion, 
To feel firm earth beneath their feet once more, 
To breathe again the air 

With taint of bilge and cordage undefiled, 
And drink of living springs, if there they may, 
And with fresh fruits and wholesome food repair 

Their spirits, weary of the watery way. 

And oh ! How beautiful 
The things on earth appear 
To eyes that far and near 
For many a week have seen 
Only the circle of the restless sea ! 



216 Songs of the Pilgrims. 

With what a fresh delight 
They gaze again on fields and forests green, 

Hovel, or whatsoe'er 
May bear the trace of man's industrious hand ! 

How grateful to their sight 

The shore of shelving sand, 
As the light boat moves joyfully to land ! 

Woods they behold, and huts, and piles of wood, 

And many a trace of toil, 
But not green fields or pastures. 'Twas a land 

Of pines and sand ; 
Dark pines that from the loose and sparkling soil 

Rose in their strength aspiring : far and wide 

They sent their searching roots on every side, 
And thus, by depth and long extension, found 
Firm hold and grasp within that treacherous 

ground : 
So had they risen and flourished, till the earth, 

Unstable as its neighboring ocean there, 

Like an unnatural mother, heaped around 
Their trunks its wavy furrows white and high, 
And stifled thus the living things it bore. 

Half -buried thus they stand, 

Their summits sere and dry, 



First Landing of the Pilgrims. 217 

Marking like monuments the funeral mound ; 
As when the masts of some tall vessel show 
Where, on the fatal shoals, the wreck lies 

whelmed below. 

— Robert Southey. 



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